NEUVE CHAPELLE by JOHN GRAY  (1886 – March 4th 1917)
 
Born in High Wycombe John Arthur Gray enlisted in 1905 with the Royal Berkshire Regiment. He was later transferred to the 2nd Battalion which landed in France in November 1914, and in March 1915 Gray’s battalion took part in the Battle of Neuve Chapelle.  During the battle Gray was badly wounded in the head. He had been greatly affected by the conditions and the appalling loss of life during that battle; later in 1915, as he recovered, he wrote what was to be the definitive poem about the battle, Neuve Chapelle, the manuscript of which is in the National Army Museum, London.  Two years later, as his battalion was fighting the Germans as they carried out a strategic withdrawal to the Hindenburg Line, Company Sergeant Major Gray DCM was killed by enemy fire on March 4th 1917. 
 
NEUVE CHAPELLE
 
Six months of misery, six months of hell, Drenched an’ ‘arf frozen but stickin’ it well, Sniped in the darkness an’ shelled in the light, Gawd ‘ow we longed for the chance of a fight. Workin’ all night wi’ the mud to our knees, Diggin like blazes in case we should freeze. Would the sun never shine? We were stuck in our trench Wi’ the mud an’ the rain! One continual drench, Was wot we ‘ad to stick; an’ we dreamed every day, Of pals who ‘ad gone, an’ the debts we’d to pay. Till at last came the order ‘go back for a rest’. We ‘ad seven days o’ that an’ I likes work the best, If that’s wot they calls restin’, a drillin’ all day, An’ a workin’ all night; but twas making the way, For a glorious attack, so we done the work well, Then the order came ‘Boys you’ve to take Neuve Chapelle’.

Royal Berkshires an’ Lincolns to lead the attack, Irish Rifles an’ Rifle Brigade at their back, An’ the Iron Dook ‘imself never led troops more fine, Than the ole 25th Brigade – pride o’ the Line. Well, we marched out o’ billets all singin’ an gay, At the thoughts of a beautiful scrap the next day. Till the order came down ‘no more singin’, no noise, We are near the position, no more talkin’ boys’! Then in silence we marched to the trench just an old Bit o’ ditch, full o’ water, an’ perishin’ cold, An’ that long weary wait for the dawn to appear, Will stick in my mem’ry for many a year. At last came the mornin’ ‘an with it a strange Sort o’ silence – then boom – as the guns got the range. Fix bayonets! Stand ready, an’ keep in line well, An’ get ready boys for to take Neuve Chapelle.

Then Hell was let loose, as a wild awful sound, Which deafened our ear drums an’ shook the whole ground, Grew louder, more fearful, as four hundred guns, Sent their message of death to the lines o’ the Huns. The fierce bark o’ quick-fires, the howitzers roar, An’ the dull boom o’ siege guns, an’ field guns galore. T’was an earthquake, a cyclone, a landslip in one, When that ‘orrible, awful bombardment begun.

The stink o’ the lyddite an’ thick yellow smoke, As ‘ouses went down an’ the barbed wire was broke, An’ brave men went white an’ were tremblin’ wi’ dread, An’ the scream o’ that shrapnel still rings in my ‘ead. Then we looked to our rifles to see they were right, Shook ‘ands wiv old pals ‘case we fell in the fight, Wished each other good luck, an’ old Smithy my pal, Ses ‘I’ll meet yer tonight when we’ve took Neuve Chapelle.

Now the old foot-sloggers! Infantry bold, Charge! As yer fathers did in the days of old. Charge! For yer wimmin’ fer Gawd an’ the right, What though ye fall in so glorious a fight. Over the parapet t’is but a dash, Of a few hundred yards wi’ the roar an’ the crash, O’ the guns in our ears an’ a deep sobbin’ breath, As our pals fall around us all awful in death.

Fallin’ like leaves but still onward the line Of the Berkshires an’ Lincolns swept; Gawd it was fine! Grimy an’ bloodstained an’ plastered wi’ mud, We broke thro’ their first line an’ then the dull thud, As the bay’nets went ‘ome an’ the Huns turned an’ ran, While we followed up closely, fer every man, ‘Ad a debt to pay back, an’ we paid ‘em up well, Wi’ some int’rest to spare, ere we reached Neuve Chapelle.

Onward, still onward, two more lines to take, But see! – the Bavarians waver – they break! These are no Landsturm, nor cravens, I’d swear, That the pride o’ the whole Germany Army was there, Tried vet’rans all, an’ Gawd ‘ow they fought, Ne’er was a victory more dearly bought. Shootin’ an’ stabbin’ the blood flowin’ fast, ‘One more rush – all together boys – Broke ‘em at last. Now dig fer yer lives lads, lie close to the ground’. Same ole machine-guns, an’ same ‘orrid sound, As the bullets come searchin’ us hissin’ like sin. ‘Ow we cursed an’ we prayed as we dug ourselves in, Workin’ ‘an sweatin’ midst that ‘ail o’ lead, We got cover at last an’ now take a breath, An’ a smoke boys, light up you ‘ave earned one so well, Three lines o’ trenches won ‘Now – Neuve Chapelle!’

‘Ere comes the Irish an’ Rifle Brigade, Ter show ‘em the stuff of which Britons are made. Faces set grim, not a man lookin’ back, As they pass thro’ our ranks to begin the attack On the village in front, which is now strongly ‘eld, By the cursed machine-guns, but battered and shelled, The ole Rifles pressed on wi’ that look on each face, Of sure steady purpose, an’ pride o’ the race. ‘Ouse by ‘ouse, street by street, they are forcin’ ‘em back, Not a pause or a waver in that fierce attack. An’ now the big German guns add to the din, As shells whistle over, an’ roofs tumble in.

An’ ‘ouses fly upwards, an’ fill us wi’ fear, For the brave lads in front there, but ‘ark’ such a cheer Rends the air, An’ we know they ‘ave got thro’ that hell, An the ole 25th Brigade’s took Neuve Chapelle.

Took it, an’ ‘eld it too, ‘gainst fierce attack, As they came on in thousands we still rolled ‘em back, Crushed an’ defeated; no treach’rous Hun, Shall again tread the soil which was so ‘ardly won. Now look around fer the pals that you’ve lost, The Victory is won, but oh! Gawd wot a cost.

They war’nt no saints, but just plain ‘Reg’lar Boys’, True, rough and ready an’ fond of a noise. Still, I’d take their chance on the great Judgement Day ‘Gainst some pious gentle folk, who, I daresay, Wouldn’t a’ shook ‘ands wi’ them, not in times o’ peace. But the Great Maker knows an’ when all wars shall cease, An’ the last Roll is called, well, I feel sure that then, Christ won’t be ‘ard, ‘cause they died fer men. So we’ll pray to the Maker that all may be well Wi’ the laddies who died when we took Neuve Chapelle.