Death of a Chum

George Bramwell and my grandfather were chums. They met while serving in the Royal Field Artillery special reserves prior to the war. Both men were trained as field telephonist responsible for establishing communications between the artillery battery's forward observer and the battery. Of the many positions within a field battery, one of the most dangerous was the telephonist. They were responsible for selecting a forward observation post and running wire back to the battery's telephone dugout. During battle the wire could be severed several times requiring one of the telephonist to crawl along the wire and repair the break. While mending breaks, they were often exposed to the enemy. They were often shooting targets from enemy trenches, sniper fire and shrapnel from exploding shells.

The following journal entry describes the death of George Bramwell, which occurred in October of 1914 during the battle of Marne.

This day was going to be well-remembered. During the morning things were a little more quiet than usual. We were sitting around the guns. I had left my telephone beneath one of the gun limbers.

We were having a feast of Bully Beef[1] and potatoes (potatoes did not come our way often), when a battery of German artillery found us with shrapnel shells.

The first round burst directly over our number three gun, which was just a short distance from us. Needless to say we all scattered. Bramwell and I ran towards the gun limber where I left the field phone. George was to my right when I heard the shell burst and saw him go down.

I dove under the limber to phone my chum Collins, while two gunners dragged Bramwell to the shelter of the limber. It was just seconds after they delivered him when three more shells exploded and the two gunners went down.

Collins came running, and he and I did what we could for poor Bramwell but it was useless. Bullets from bursting shells hailed down on the limber as I held him in my arms. Collins and I expected to be hit any second but the limber saved us.

After the shelling stopped we removed poor Bramwell; it was an unpleasant sight to see a chum’s brains by one’s side. Once Bramwell’s body was removed, I noticed that a shell case was stuck in the ground just two yards from where I laid. Luckily it didn’t splinter, for Collins and I would have been killed. Everything seemed to bear marks of that lively hour excepting for us two.

We dug a hole that night and many times the hole saved us. When it was comfortably quiet, invariably the enemy would switch over and shell us. Several men were wounded at different times when it was least expected.

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[1] Bully Beef: Canned corned beef that was the principal protein ration of the British army.