Sunday 11th November 1917

On trains.

Sgt. George Richard Goodchild (see 10^th November), with his customary eloquence, described the day’s journey,

“A cold morning greeted us when we were awakened at Marcon at 6.30 am by the stentorian voice of the CO calling on everybody on the train to “get out of it”.  The Orderly Officer roused himself hurriedly, the guard – only half awake – was posted and immediately the bugle sounded the ‘advance’ the troops stumbled sleepily out of the train for the hot coffee which was provide for them.  Rations for the day were distributed and about an hour later, the men having breakfasted, performed their ablutions and returned to their places, we moved off again through what proved to be some of the mist beautiful scenery eye could wish to behold.  Our way lay through what must be the garden of France for as far as eye could see the country was covered with vineyards whose vines were slowly yellowing from their summer beauty to the glorious tints of autumn, carpeting the undulating country with a beautiful covering of yellow which was turned to burnished gold by the rays of the sun.  On the right an imposing background was provided by a formidable range of mountains whose misty pinnacles reached into the clouds and whose slopes were wreathed by the morning mists which floated round about them until they were gradually dispersed by the ever growing strength of the sun and the bold outlines of the mountains became quite plain   At the foot of the hills and scattered over the plain were innumerable villages and hamlets whose houses – with their almost flat roofs and overhanging eaves – gave the country a Switzerland like appearance.  In the morning sunshine the houses gleamed and made the whole landscape a vista of beauty.  For myself, never before had I seen such loveliness in nature, not that I had previously been unmindful of nature’s beauty but simply because I had never seen nature so beautiful.  Oftentimes the cinematograph – that wonderful teacher of modern times – has portrayed for me the beauties of southern France and Italy.  Never did I think that I should behold them in their natural state and setting; yet here in November – when probably people at home would be wrapped in furs and overcoats – the sun was shining brightly and all the natural world was gay and beautiful and with my own eyes I beheld the beauties which hitherto I had only seen ‘at the pictures’.

Intertwined with the railway was the River Saone with its marshy stretches and clear running waters.  It accompanied us on our journey for many miles before it gave place to the River Rhone.  Ville Franche was reached at 8.15; Abigny with its cliffs – reminding one strangely of the famous crag at Kilnsey – and Mont d’Or were passed half an hour later, and at nine o’clock we were at Lyon-Vaise.  Here nasturtiums were in full bloom in the open – in November remember – palms became quite commonplace and the rocky nature of the country brought back to mind the hills of Derbyshire about Matlock.  Far be it for me to belittle in the slightest degree England’s charms and beauties and although the Peak District, for instance, is a wonderfully beautiful place, truth to tell the district through which we were now passing far transcended anything I had seen in my Motherland.  I was astounded for previously I could not have believed that ordinary northern France could have such a beautiful southern counterpart.

At 9.30 am on Sunday Lyons was reached.  What a sight the city was.  Built on the eastern and western slopes of the broad-bosomed Rhone the city is indeed a wonderful sight.  The eastern town apparently comprised the working portion and the western a residential.  The sun was shining brightly over the countryside – indeed the only dull spot was the double walled prison which we passed quite close to the railway – and the distant mountains provided a setting of great grandeur for the lesser gaily clad hills of the Rhone valley with their pine covered slopes spotted all over with brightly coloured houses upon which the sun shone and from which it was dazzlingly reflected.  Lyons will remain forever a place to be remembered by us all.  Proceeding south with the waters of the river on our immediate right – in fact in some places we were travelling on the top of a wall built out of the river itself which formed, with the base of the hills, a ledge upon which the rails were laid – another hours riding brought us to Estression which is mentionable because of the home-like bales of wool stacked at its station.

Until reaching Valence at 12.45 pm an unending panorama of beauty was unfolded to us along the Rhone valley, fertile in every inch and sheltered by high cloud wreathed hills. Now we came to country somewhat resembling Wharfedale only much grander.  Here the hills appeared to be terraced – caused, of course, by the movements of the river in years gone by – each terrace being a little vineyard wearing its autumn dress.  In one part a vast amount of land was cultivated by hermits for dotted over the countryside were the hermitages of various pious men, each having the name of the occupier inscribed in large letters on the walls.  If life after death can be gained by the assiduous tillage of the soil and the bringing forth of the fruits of the earth – though I personally I doubt very much whether this hidden life yields any good at all in the sense of doing good to one’s fellows (but ethics must not be discussed here) – then these hermits of southern France are sure of their hereafter.

Proceeding, we arrived at Montelimar – that toothsome name beloved by children and famous in courting days – at 2.30 pm and at 4.20 pm we were at Pierrelatte – having passed Donere where we stopped a short time for dinner and refreshment at 3.20 pm – where I was able to purchase some nougat actually made at Montelimar.  And very nice it was too.  Montelimar itself is a moderately sized country place standing well back from the railway and composed of strongly built stone houses grouped closely together and surmounted by the tower of the village church.

This day I spent most of my time on an open air truck immediately next to our carriage and in the warm sunshine no cold could be felt at all.  Indeed many remarked that instead of issuing out winter clothing before we left Zudausques it would have been more appropriate if tropical kit had been given to us!!  At Arles we stopped for supper and liquid refreshment this being the last halt for the day.  It was then 10 o’clock and as bed called imperiously we were soon ‘down to it’.”

The accounts by Pte. Harold Charnock (see 1^st November) and Capt. William Norman Town (see 9^th November) recall the cold of the overnight journey, 11^th/12^th November. Charnock remembered that, “the Mistral was blowing and it was bitterly cold”; while Town reflected on how they had travelled, “by devious ways to keep the main line clear, through Troyes, Les Laumes and Macon, and beside the still, full waters of the Saone to Lyons.  Then followed a bitter night down the Rhone Valley with the Mistral penetrating every crevice of the none-too windproof French rolling stock”.

Pte. Patrick Sweeney (see 8^th November), who had been convicted of desertion and sentenced to 15 years’ penal servitude, was admitted to 7^th Military Prison at Les Attaques near Calais.

Pte. Philip Pankhurst (see 24th August) was posted back to England (presumably having never re-joined the Battalion after his treatment for scabies); he had clearly not begun the journey to Italy with the rest of the Battalion.

Pte. Alfred Edward Wybrow MM (see 28^th September), who had been in England since having been wounded on 20^th September, was discharged from hospital and posted to 3DWR at North Shields.

The War Office wrote to the wife of Pte. Thomas Bates (see 29^th October) asking for a copy of her marriage certificate and details of their children in order to finalise their records.

Joseph Bell died at his home in Settle; he was the father of one of Tunstill’s original volunteers, the late Pte. Robert William Bell (see 12^th February), who had been killed at Le Sars in October 1916. Another son, John Bell, was serving with the Royal Engineers.