ANDERSON, David D., 63 Hunters Road, Spittal Tongues, Newcastle-on Tyne. Enlisted in N.C.B. February 1st, 1915. He sends me the following splendid account of his service:-

Battalion Bomber – First volunteered for overseas at Anderby Creek, carried on till I left Battalion, July, 1917. Gained marksmanship at Skeg, but was beat by Weatherburn, C Company for Battalion Star, though had a good time training rookies on range at Gibraltar Point. Won medal which I still have for Lines Coast Defence cross country run at Alford; ninth man home; distance 5-6 miles, 300 to 400 runners. Not so bad considering no training.

July 19th, 1917 – On draft for N.F. Joined them at Etaples base. Had four days in Bull Ring, and considered efficient. Spent about a fortnight there, then was drafted to 1/6 Lancashire Fusiliers at Gommecourt.

Bullecourt – Had week or two there, then marched to Bouzincourt, next to Albert. Red hot weather, men cracking up all along route. All Northerners stuck it well. Marched from there to some other place, and entrained for Belgium. Did a bit of training on Lewis gun behind line, then marched to Poperinghe and trained up to Ypres into bivies, half a mile off the ruins. First experience of Fritz’s long-range guns. Very hot. After a couple of days the order to go up the line that night. Set off in the dark and marched single file up through Ypres on the notorious Menin road. Our fellows bombarding Fritz. Batteries wheel to wheel. Hellish din. Lost all hearing in my right ear for a while; could hardly distinguish Jerry’s shells coming and our shells going. Then came up to “Hell Fire Corner.” True to name. Mules dancing about the road mad with fright. R.F.A. men clinging to them for dear life. One of Jerry’s heavies burst 20 or 30 yards on our left with an awful crash. You fancy men, mere boys some of ours were, up in all that for their first time, truly their baptism of fire; then one looks at the huddled forms at the side of the road lying beside the horses they cared for; their troubles are over; the screaming shells no longer rack their nerves. Now the duck boards, the H.L.I. were coming out of the line, and as we passed them I said to one chap – it was an old saying we had – “They tell me there’s a war on up here, is that right?” But he never answered. Maybe it was the shell that came screeching overhead at that moment that stopped him, or maybe he was thinking about Hell Fire Corner, which he had to pass further down the road, or what remained of it, on his way back to sleep and rest. About half a mile of duck boards – it’s a good job they were there – one could hardly swim with a pack on. Then reserves and Company Headquarters in a Jerry block house, and the awful stench – one didn’t glance twice at those khaki forms lying in the shell holes and mud on either side, to lie unburied – no time. Already Jerry’s machine guns were clattering. Every now and then a hoarse cry, “Make way for the wounded,” and we stood with one leg in the mud till they passed, white and breathless and smeared with red. Then, close to the front line, Jerry was putting star lights up as soon as one died down. They almost seemed to come right over to us or within a few yards. What remained of an aeroplane lay in front of us nose in the ground; then a tank half buried in mud, with its toll of brave men lying around; some lay almost naked, the tank men; its door stood open, but no one looked inside – no need. We knew what lay there. Anyway, it was death to linger. The front line Lewis gunners forward, so I pulled myself together and stumbled forward with my other five comrades and scrambled down into our position, a Jerry block house, one of their small ones, so we stuck the gun up and made ourselves as comfortable as possible.

Night passed with its small events to four in the morning, Jerry’s time for straffing, and straff he did for – well, I could not tell you how long, but it seemed an eternity – then silence for ten minutes, and then our boys did the straffing and Jerry’s was only a side show compared with it; his lines were one mass of smoke and flame. Then daylight and a good view of No Man’s Land. There was a big block house next to us unoccupied; it was smashed some. It was the remains of a battle in which the Irish Division were badly cut up. A Jerry lay in front of it. I could tell by his jack boots, and I could see the putteed leg of one of the Irish lads sticking out of the shell hole full of mud, a matter of 3 yards in front; a mule lay behind us with its feet sticking in the air. Why, the stink of that place haunted me for fully a month after I was captured.

This big block house was full of dead Germans and Irishmen, all laid out, so no one ever went inside it at night, and the Jerry snipers had the doorway marked through the day, as the occasional crack of his bullet striking the concrete told us. The afternoon of the day we were to be relieved Jerry put a shell, 4.5, right beside us. He had been trying for our place all day, and when I heard this one coming something told me that it was going to be closer than the others. Well, it wasn’t a dud, and when the smoke and the shouting had died down we had two men wounded and the shape of our position altered a bit. Our Company went out that night with only two casualties and a few wounded, and back to our bivies and a good feed. Well, that was my first time up at Ypres, and I don’t forget it. We went over the top a few days after at the same place (Zilliebeck Lake), on the left of the Menin road, seven in the morning, on a Wednesday, 6th of September, and all that remained of B Company Lancashire Fusiliers by night time was eight of us, covered with mud, yes, and blood, stumbling wearily along a Belgium road yon side of the German lines with a Uhlan riding in front and one behind. Yes, we were still advancing; in fact, we advanced as far as Northern Germany, much to the our regret, though lucky to be alive, and one consolation was that, at the same time as we were trudging along, there was about forty square heads trudging along as well, the lot that we captured that very morning about nine o’clock in a block house called Bek House, one of our objectives.

Well, I could tell you more of over the top stunt, with a few details about a prison camp in Deutschland. I had about sixteen months of it, and got back last New Year’s Day to good old Blighty. I am in good health and not much the worse for my experiences. There was only one other N.C.B. captured that day, and I did not see him till after the Armistice at a head camp – Guströw. He was badly wounded, his name was Jeffries, an old B Company lad.