Reference: Memoirs of an Army Meteorologist

Originally published in The Meteorological Magazine between 1979 and 1980. © Crown Copyright.

Sourced and provided by the National Meteorological Library and Archive — Met Office, UK. Reproduced here under the Open Government Licence.

See also: Soldier-Cartoonist Harry Cotton
See also: The Meteorological Office and The First World War Referenced in part 1 of the memoir.

Part 1

Meteorological Magazine, August 1969, No. 1285, Vol.108, pp.241-247. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 1

We print this month the first of a series of extracts from the unpublished memoirs of Dr H. Cotton who, until his retirement in 1954, was Professor of Electrical Engineering at Nottingham University. He has sent us a copy of his memoirs — which contain many details of his childhood, early education, and personal reminiscences as well as his account of his experiences in 'Meteor' — and has kindly granted us permission to make extracts from them for publication in the Meteorological Magazine.

Dr Cotton spent his childhood in Hanley in the Potteries, and won scholarships to Manchester University where he studied under Rutherford. As a boy he became a skilled amateur player of the cello. The Meteorological Section of the Royal Engineers, or 'Meteor' as it was generally known, was commanded by Captain (later Lt.-Col.) E. Gold, F.R.S., who described its work in the special issue of the Meteorological Magazine celebrating the centenary of the Office.* Except for that of Col. Gold himself, all names used by Dr Cotton are fictitious.

At the commencement of my final year at the university I tried to join the O.T.C.; only tried, because besides being left-handed, I was almost completely left-sided. I was therefore very clumsy at rifle drill but was a fairly good shot provided that I could hold the butt at the left shoulder and manipulate the breach bolt with the left hand. This of course would not do; if I was to shoot an enemy it must be right-handed or not at all. But for this I might have been one of the sixty thousand casualties of the first day of the Battle of the Somme, for the regiment I would have joined, the Fifth North Staffs., was almost completely wiped out. It is curious to realize that, if I had been right-handed, these memoirs might not have been written, or, if they had been written, would have been entirely different.

At the time of the outbreak of war in 1914 I was a lecturer at the Technical College, St Helens, Lancashire. I was responsible for the whole of the instruction in Electrical Engineering, in Advanced Machine Drawing and Design, and in Advanced Practical Mathematics. I had classes every week-night from seven to ten, every Saturday afternoon from two to five, and part-time day classes on two days a week. It was a formidable program which could not have been sustained if the evening and Saturday classes had been continued beyond Easter. Fortunately, after Easter, there was, apart from day classes, only light administrative work; without this rest I doubt if I, or anyone else, could have continued.

[Soon after the outbreak of war, Dr Cotton attempted to join the motor-cycle machine-gun corps, but the Education Authorities would not release him.] On September 25th of that year, 1915, the British launched their first major offensive of the war. It was named the Battle of Loos after the town of that name situated in the middle of a vast mining complex. Characteristic of this industry, the terrain was broken and, littered by ramshackle buildings of all kinds, crossed by roads and lanes and railway lines, hopeless for attack but ideal for defence since almost every feature could be converted into a strong-point. Perhaps most important of all, the enemy had possession of every one of the spoil heaps, these giving them such perfect observation that they could note every move made by the British, see the position of every gun, see everything in fact.

Apart from the almost lunatic choice of terrain for an offensive battle and the stationing of the reserve twenty miles away so that when they were needed they had to make a long forced march, the special feature of the battle was that the British used gas for the first time. It was supposed to be a profound secret known only to the Higher Command, but the gas was made at Widnes, and many of the soldiers whose homes were in or near Widnes knew from letters from home that 'Roger' was coming out, 'Roger' meaning chlorine. There are always those who are unable to keep a secret and soon everybody knew this supposed secret, the local population knew it, and through local spies the Germans also knew. So from their ideal observation position they watched the gas cylinders being placed in position in a trench and informed their gunners just where the cylinders were.

Now gas released from cylinders is a very treacherous weapon since to be effective the surface wind must be about three or four miles an hour and must be steady in direction as well as in velocity. But light winds are very fickle, liable to sudden changes in direction, and that is what happened. At first it appeared that the gas would be a great success, but suddenly the wind changed direction and the gas was blown back. This is what the Germans were waiting for; their meteorological service, very much superior to ours at the time, had anticipated such a change. Immediately their guns opened fire on the gas cylinders which, when broken, poured out an almost solid cloud of chlorine. The reserves, tired after their forced march, ran straight into it. The battle was described by the press as a great victory because a few yards of useless territory were captured. In fact it was a tragedy of lessons not learned and courage wasted. In his book 'Fifth Army' Gough wrote 'Both Sir John French and Sir Douglas Haig made energetic protests against launching this attack at Loos... the

fighting was for "the cause", a stern necessity which weighed more heavily on us every year as the war continued' (my italics).

To all intents and purposes the sacrifices in men and material had been in vain, but one important lesson had been learned. It was that the vagaries of purely local winds cannot be forecast from a synoptic chart covering Europe and much of the Atlantic Ocean. It is necessary to have observers covering the whole of the area for which such information is required. So, a few weeks later, I received a letter from the War Office asking if I would volunteer for service in a Meteorological Section R. E. to be stationed in France. This time my request for release by the Education Authorities was granted, and I was to become that rara avis a peg in a hole of the right shape and I dropped all ideas about serving with the motor-cycle machine-guns. I immediately wrote an acceptance, and a few days later I received a second communication instructing me to sign on at any convenient Recruiting Station and then await further instructions.

I went once more to J.J. [as the Principal was colloquially referred to] and asked if I might have a day off so that I might see my parents; 'you never know' I said. He agreed. 'That will mean someone taking one of your evening classes' he said 'and that someone will have to be me'. He settled for the evening of the Lancashire and Cheshire examination in electrical engineering. I was very doubtful but said nothing beyond thanking him for his help.

I said goodbye to my parents and signed on at the Hanley Recruiting Office as I knew the Recruiting Officer there. I received the King's shilling, which I still have somewhere. When I saw the class the following week I asked what J.J. had taught them and they all laughed. 'Was it very amusing?' I asked. 'It certainly was' said one; 'he said that a line of force was like a string of sausages'. 'Yes' said another 'he worked out a numerical problem and couldn't get the right answer'. 'I think you had better forget all that he told you' I said, and then continued with a proper lesson.

At the very beginning of the New Year of 1916 I received instructions to report at the Queen Mary R.E. Barracks at Chatham. Army barracks are pretty much the same wherever they are and there is little point in describing this one except to say that it was not made for physical comfort. I gave my particulars, name, age, address, religion. That was United Methodist, but if I had said that I had no religion I should have been put down as Church of England. It seemed that I was joining a very religious army. This interrogation over and my pedigree duly recorded I turned away and a sergeant who was standing by said in a sneering voice 'And where have you been all this time my little man?' I wasn't having any, having already sensed the contempt of the old army for us mere civilians. So I said nothing, gave him a weak smile and passed on. The next man was made of sterner stuff and to the same silly question he replied 'Helping my bloody country while you lot were losing the bloody war'. I thought that the sergeant was about to drop dead, and hoped he would. Instead, he recovered himself after visible effort and marched off. 'That was brave of you' I said, 'but I am afraid you will be for it' and I was right. My fatigues were not so bad, peeling spuds one day and acting as house­ maid in married quarters on another. The brave man seemed to spend most of his time cleaning latrines and I hoped he would be able to get his own back although I could not imagine how it would be possible. As far as I was concerned the worst bit was the CSM injection which made one feel decidedly miserable for a day, after which it wore off.

I joined a sizable bunch of men about my own age and I heard one of them say that there was a rumour to the effect that they would be going overseas in a day or two.

'Do you all belong to Meteor?' I said.
'Meteor, what's that?'
'It's the unit I have been instructed to join'.
'Never heard of it'.
'What are you then?'
'A gas company, we are the blokes who will turn on the bloody gas taps. Some bloke at the War Office decided that to turn on the taps properly one must have an honours degree in Chemistry, so here we are, a bunch of Chemistry teachers'.

Turning gas taps was not my idea of serving King and Country and I realized that it was time I saw the Commanding Officer and explained the situation. Trying to see the C.O. was almost as difficult as trying to see God, but by working upwards from lance-corporal up the ladder of rank to the adjutant I at last gained permission to see this august personage. I was ushered into the presence, escorted by an enormous sergeant, and explained the position. I handed to him my original letter from the War Office. He was very pleasant and not at all fearsome, not to me anyway, and he started things moving straight away. I was issued with a railway warrant to Newark and instructed to report to the R.E. Barracks there. I travelled by the midnight train from King's Cross and arrived in the early hours.

One thing I brought with me from the barracks at Chatham was a red fibre identity disc stamped H. COTTON, UM, R.E. 160163. The UM stood for United Methodist. I discovered that everyone entering the Army, no matter which service, had to possess an identity disc, and he had to have a religion even if he had never belonged to any religious denomination. If he declared that he had no religion, then, automatically, he became a member of the Church of England. It would appear that the Army authorities could not possibly allow a man to attend a 1compulsory religious service unless he belonged, if only in an Army record, to some religious denomination. I had already found out that one could not be allowed to handle a rifle left-handed — I happen to be left-handed — but I doubt if there were any troops who, like Cromwell's Ironsides, went into battle on a prayer and a bible. I spent what remained of the night on a sloping board in the guardroom and, after breakfast at the barracks, recited once again all my particulars. I also underwent a medical test once again, a test which at that stage of the war I should have passed even if I needed propping up. Having already had a CSM injection at Chatham, I was spared a repetition, for which I was thankful, as the after­ effects were unpleasant.

I was directed to a civilian billet and instructed to report each morning after breakfast, and that was all.

Newark is a very pleasant town, and apart from the necessity to report each morning after break­ fast, and before I was provided with Army uniform, I was, to all intents and purposes, a holiday-maker whose expenses were paid by the State. I have always been content with my own company and I went on long walks into the pleasant countryside or along the river banks, watched the express trains at the level crossing on the Lincoln road — I retained my love of railway engines until the sad ending of the steam era — and practised on the violin so that I became quite proficient in my unorthodox manner of playing it. [The violin referred to by Dr Cotton belonged to the owners of his billet, and he played it as though it were a miniature cello.] I also browsed in the town library. Newark, especially in former years, was an extremely important town because it was at a river crossing. I therefore read the history of the town with very great interest.

The day came when I was provided with Army uniform complete with corporal's stripes. For a time I was still free to do what I liked but there was now the irritation of having to salute, which was a nuisance as there were always plenty of commissioned officers about. So I largely avoided the town — I had thoroughly explored it by then — and spent most of my time walking.

Early in 1916 I received information that I was to proceed to France. I was given a railway warrant to King's Cross and told to report to the Railway Transport Officer there, who would give me further instructions. I received no military training whatever, no square bashing, no small arms drill, nothing but the ability to salute, and this I always did badly. Still, I had my corporal's stripes. I presumed that if by any mischance I should meet the enemy I should have to use my initiative. This was my preparation to 'fight the foreign foe'.

The troopship left Southampton in the early hours of the morning. Because I left Newark before breakfast time and there was no chance of a snack at Waterloo even if I could have pushed my way through the crush in the refreshment room I was feeling decidedly peckish. I and all the other troops who were waiting to embark were served with strong sweet tea and two of those army biscuits which look exactly like large dog biscuits. After eating them, whatever they were, I was still feeling hungry. Fortunately the sea was calm, so we were told, for there are few things worse than being seasick on an empty stomach.

We landed at Le Havre and we again were served with tea and dog biscuits. There was one lot of men belonging to Strathcona's Horse, obviously cavalry by their uniform and equipment; I had never heard of the regiment before. Naturally, at that time I knew nothing of the conditions at the fighting fronts but I wondered what use cavalry could be on broken terrain, riddled by shell holes, with a continuous belt of trenches two and three deep, with communication trenches and iron pickets and barbed wire all over the place. The High Command retained their obsession with cavalry far too long. There could be no repetition of Omdurman with such terrain and against an enemy equipped with every conceivable device for killing at a distance.

We stayed at a so-called rest camp near Le Havre and went by train the following morning to Rouen where we stayed another day and night. I managed to get into the town which was of double interest, first its great historical importance and second its beauty. Of course, I visited the spot where Joan of Arc was burned, surely one of the greatest crimes in British history, and I looked up and round at all the buildings in the square so as to see the last things that she would have seen. Then train again, a long slow journey to Abbeville. I had to change there and this gave me a chance to examine a monster of a locomotive with a square funnel, and, by the look of it, all its pipes on the outside. I couldn't imagine a more ugly engine, especially in comparison with the sleek beauty and clean lines of so many British locomotives. It looked a powerful brute. We were all longing for a drink so I borrowed two dixies and took them, along with my own, to the driver, who filled them with boiling water straight from the boiler. Someone in the carriage had candles so that most of the heat lost on the walk back, but not all, was made up and with plenty of tea from the iron rations there was tea for everybody. It was slightly oily but we didn't mind that.

The new train seemed to wander all over the north of France. At every crossing there were hoards of children shouting 'Bully beef, souvenirs', demonstrating the generosity, so often misplaced, of the British Tommy. It was said that many of the peasants had their cottages lined with tins of bully beef, and although this was a gross exaggeration it was a pointer to the extent of this foolish giving away of things which the donor might need for himself later on.

After what seemed an eternity the train arrived at St Omer station, some distance from the town. I had been ordered to report at a place called Helfant and I had to walk. So I asked a man on the platform 'Combien de kilometres y-a-t-il d'ici a Helfant?', airing my sixth form French. I forget how many kilometres it was, but it was a long walk uphill all the way, and my burden, heavy pack and greatcoat, seemed to become heavier with each step. Helfant is a small village on a high plateau and the first thing I noticed was a cup anemometer rotating merrily. As there were no Meteor personnel there I assumed that there had once been a meteorological observation station, and that it was now abandoned. I heard the sound of gunfire for the first time. There was a mess where I had the first good meal since I left England. My billet was a barn, comfortable enough, as there was plenty of dry hay. I intended to go for a long walk but the plateau was so bare and uninviting, so I thought I might as well go into an estaminet which seemed to be doing a roaring business. I was still hungry. The man in front of me ordered 'doos oofs, pomme de terre fritz, pain et beurre, cafe avec'. It looked very good so I ordered the same. It was good, in fact it is still, after all these years, a favourite dish of mine. As there was no point in going for a walk I stayed for quite a while talking to anyone who wanted to talk. The war was not even mentioned. When I turned in, the guns were still rumbling but when I awoke they were silent. After breakfast I trudged back to St Omer station, not so tiring this time as it was downhill all the way. I caught a train which also seemed to wander over the whole of northern France. It took me back to Abbeville where I caught another train and reached Hesdin, Second Echelon G.H.Q. in the late afternoon.

I reported immediately to Meteor and after the Sergeant Major had made sure that there were no buttons undone and that my cap was on straight I was ushered into the presence. Colonel Gold had a slightly saturnine appearance which belied his nature although, as was his right, he could be very angry if things went wrong. He questioned me about my university career; was I any good at Mathematics and Physics? He wrote me a differential equation and asked how I would solve it, also a number of questions about certain aspects of Physics, particularly those pertaining to the science of Meteorology. He seemed quite satisfied and after a while I was dismissed and told to report again to the S.M. who would give me further instructions. These were to find my billet, which was in the infantry barracks, leave my kit there and be back in time for dinner. The prospect of dinner was cheering but the billet was the reverse.

The barracks were a plain stone building, uglier I think than any building I had ever seen before. It was old at the time of the 1870 war with Germany. The rooms were large enough to take, I should say, twenty men. Instead of a door there was a wide open archway, and directly opposite, high up in the wall, a window, small for the size of the room. The floor was of stone and there was nothing to give protection against its cold hardness; no straw, no blankets, nothing. I wondered what kind of a night I was going to have. I found a tap, cold water of course, one could not expect even the simplest of luxuries in such a place, and was thus able to wash off the grime of the long hot railway journey. I had this bare room to myself; in fact, vast as the building was there seemed to be very few people in it. As I anticipated I had a very uncomfortable night, not having had time to become accustomed to the absence of luxuries. I was very thankful when morning came, after what seemed an interminable night. I washed and shaved at the cold tap and made my way back to Meteor.

The organization of Meteor was as follows:

(1). The headquarters staff. The O.C., the adjutant and a junior officer, all professional meteoro­logists in civil life. A staff of clerks from S.M. to corporal; there was no rank below corporal in the whole of Meteor, apart from officers' batmen who were privates seconded from infantry regiments.

The work consisted of the collection of data from as much of the world as possible so that the synoptic charts could be drawn. All over the world, in enemy territory as well, observations were made at what were called the fundamental hours, namely in GMT 7 a.m., 1 p.m., 6 p.m. and 1 a.m. The data were sent by priority telegram so that the chart could be drawn up as soon as possible and consisted of barometric pressure corrected to mean sea level; barometric tendency, i.e. whether up or down and the rate of change; wind direction and force; temperature; precipitation, i.e. rain, hail or snow; thunder if any.

From the 7 a.m. chart the O.C. drew up the forecast for the next twenty-four hours and this was supplied to the Commander in Chief whose headquarters were at Montreuil, First Echelon G.H.Q. Later on Meteor moved to Montreuil so as to be immediately available to the C in C when required. Data were also received from all Meteor observation stations in France, also by priority telegram. Thus the current weather conditions for the whole of the fighting area were known at Meteor head­ quarters.

(2). Army Headquarters. The staff consisted of a Meteorological Officer and two observers, both corporals. Data for the construction of the 7 a.m. chart were received by priority telegram and the chart when completed was taken by the officer to the General of that particular army. The weather and its probable tendencies were discussed. The two observers made local observations of all the phenomena required for the synoptic chart, also wet- and dry-bulb thermometer readings, from which the humidity could be calculated, the amount of rain and the amount of sunshine on the previous day. Also the kinds of cloud and their amounts and an estimation of their directions, velocities and heights. A vitally important observation was that of wind velocity and direction in the upper air to as great a height as possible.

For this purpose small balloons were filled with hydrogen so that they could just lift a certain weight; when freed from this weight and when released they rose at a rate of five hundred feet per minute. Actually, this only applied if there were no vertical air currents. The balloon was followed by means of a special theodolite whose telescope tube had a right-angled bend so that, no matter what the position of the balloon, the eyepiece half was always horizontal. Observations of azimuth and elevation were made after one minute, the balloon then having ascended vertically 500 feet; after another minute at 1000 feet and then after two-minute intervals at 2000, 3000 feet and so on for as long as the balloon could be kept in sight. Occasionally, on a clear day with little wind, observa­tions were made up to 20 000 feet.

These observations were made at the fundamental hours including 1 a.m. For this purpose it was necessary for the balloon to carry a suspended light and many experiments were made to find the most suitable. A flare, a large version of children's fireworks, was the most convenient but it was not only heavy, but as it burned away its weight was progressively reduced thus affecting the rate of vertical climb. The final solution was a Chinese lantern made from tracing paper and carrying a toy candle. It was ironical that a toy which could give delight to children was used to facilitate the slaughter of fellow human beings. The possibility of error due to vertical components of the total wind had to be accepted since, to avoid this error, it was necessary to have two theodolites situated a long way apart following the balloon. Under war conditions this was not possible (a) because of the inconvenience and the necessity for two more observers, and also (b) because the complex computa­tions would have taken too long.

The chief function of these pilot-balloon ascents was the determination of wind corrections for the artillery, for times of flight ranging from those of field guns with ranges of a few thousand yards, up to the heaviest guns with ranges up to ten miles or more.

These corrections were deduced as follows: for each time of flight the trajectory was known, this being a departure from the parabola of elementary mechanics because of air resistance. Also the height of climb was known and this was divided into horizontal zones, the time spent in each zone being calculated. Also the mean wind velocity and direction for each zone was known from the results of the pilot-balloon ascent. For each zone the mean wind velocity was weighted by the time spent in the zone. All these weighted velocities were treated like forces and the mean obtained by giving each its appropriate velocity. Actually the calculation was reduced, for practical purposes, to a series of factors so that the wind corrections for half a dozen times of flight could be calculated in a few minutes, reduced to a code, and sent by priority telegram to the battery commands.

(3). Two-observer posts. As the name indicates there were two observers and they were attached to an important command such as a Divisional Headquarters. The observations made were the same as those at Army Headquarters except that there were no pilot-balloon ascents. Observations were made at the fundamental hours and at the intermediate times of 4 a.m., 10 a.m., 4 p.m. and 9 p.m.

(4). Single-observer posts. These were distributed along the whole of the battle area and as close to the front as possible, the site for the observations post being obviously chosen in accordance with its meteorological suitability. Observations were made only of wind velocity and direction, the instru­ment used being a delicate portable anemometer. Priority telegrams were sent to G.H.Q. and Army H.Q. at the four fundamental hours, these including the data for the preceding intermediate observa­tions. The observer also compiled a weather diary giving day-to-day information such as wind, weather in general, cloud amounts and kinds.

The most important duty of these observers was the sending of gas alerts if the wind approached within two points of the danger direction for his particular sector of the line, and gas warnings if it moved to only one point. The telegrams giving this information were sent to Corps and Divisions as well as G.H.Q. and Army H.Q. They were first priority which meant that the signaller had to deal with them immediately even to the putting off of other telegrams no matter who the sender might be. Thus when the wind was in a dangerous quarter it was essential that the observer must be vigilant in the lookout for changes towards the dangerous direction. These changes could be very sudden and could not therefore be forecast from the synoptic chart.

From the personal point of view the advantage of being a single observer was the great freedom apart from the necessity of vigilance when the wind was moving towards the dangerous direction.

Part 2

Meteorological Magazine, September 1979, No. 1286, Vol.108, pp.276-247. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 2

My first duty assignment was to a double-observer station close to Sailly Labourse. This I found to be a drab, sizable village about four miles south of Bethune on the road to Arras. As there was no transport available I had to go by train to Bethune and then walk. The pitiful inadequacy of the French railway system was obvious. I actually found myself back at St Omer, then Hazebrouck, Lillers and finally Bethune, which I reached in the middle of the afternoon. If the Germans could have destroyed the rail­ way system at and around Abbeville they would have gained a victory of enormous strategic importance — perhaps have brought the war to an end.

The two Meteor observers were attached to the 15th Division Headquarters in the imposing Chateau of Sailly Labourse. The 15th was an all Scottish Division which had been in action at the Battle of Loos, a few miles to the south, had fought with the courage characteristic of the Scots, and had suffered very heavy casualties, a waste of splendid men.

Our billet was a very large room at the top of the Chateau, obviously a bedroom for the staff in former days. It had two real beds and was indeed luxurious for wartime conditions. Close to the window was a large tree inhabited by little animals of a kind that I had never seen before. They were squirrel-like but smaller, their long tails bare except for a bush at the end, something like a miniature lion's tail. I made a little box for food which I suspended from the branch near the window and they used to queue up. The animal actually feeding would receive a nip from the next in the queue if it kept the others waiting too long.

My fellow observer was Corporal George, an artist who had served in the Artists' Rifles; although now officially an R.E., he retained the very distinctive Artists' Rifles cap badge, no doubt a kind of snobbishness. Actually the Artists' Rifles Regiment was kept so long at G.H.Q. that they came to be known as Haig's darlings. They had to be meticulously turned out. Not unnaturally there was a little resentment on the part of the troops who were doing all the dirty work and who were by no means so meticulously turned out.

Corporal George was given to introspection and was, in consequence, difficult to talk to at times. I was curious to learn how an artist had come to join the Meteorological Section and one day I asked him, receiving a characteristic reply:

'What was the first thing they asked you when you reported to the R.E. barracks in England?' 'Where the hell have you been all this time, or something like that.'
'Precisely, and if I were as stupid as the average warrant officer appears to be I should have said the same. The fact is that after the fiasco at Loos, it was obvious to everybody, even the brass hats at the War Office, that if we were to continue with the use of gas we must have up-to-date information about the local weather, particularly about the wind over the whole of the intended battle area. That meant a new organization including an ample number of observers, and as they couldn't wait for men like you to come out they had to make do first of all with what they could find on the spot.'

'Yes, I realize that, but, I hope you won't take offence at this, why did they choose an artist like you?'

'I haven't the least idea unless they thought that since an artist's job is to observe things he ought to be able to observe the weather. Now, will you tell me something?'

'Yes,' I said 'If I can.'

'Meteorology is a science, and science, so I have been told, is exact knowledge. But Meteorology is anything but exact — look at what happened at Loos, and think of all the weather forecasts which, all too frequently, are completely wrong.'

'That is a difficult question' I said 'and can only be answered at length.'
'All right, carry on.'
'It will be something like a lecture.' (This reply made in early 1916 is relevant even today.) 'The Laws of Science are founded on the results of experiments carried out under precisely specified conditions not once, but many times. They are substantiated by the fact that predicted results can be obtained over and over again, millions of times, at schools and universities all over the world. For example Faraday's Laws of Electrolysis predict the weight of a given metal that will be deposited on the cathode of an electrolytic tank by the passage of a stated quantity of electricity. I could give you many other examples. These and all other predictions which come within the realm of experimental science result from experi­ments made on manageable amounts of the substances concerned. Even Aristotle said that the principles of science are the result of experience. But you can't put a bit of the weather on a laboratory bench, dissect it, weigh it, boil it in a test tube or do any other of those manipulations appropriate to scientific research. With the weather it is impossible to vary at will one of the factors while maintaining the others constant. Just consider how many variables there are: barometric pressure, wind velocity and direction, temperature, humidity, all dependent on one another, but nobody knows just how and, in my opinion, never will. The best that can be done is to collect as much information as possible from as many widely spaced observations as possible, and— this is a most vital condition — all these observations must be made at exactly the same moment. There are four what are called fundamental hours, namely 1 and 7 a.m. and 1 and 6 p.m., all GMT. These are recognized the world over. From this mass of information the weather charts, synoptic charts as they are called, can be drawn and the probable weather for the next twenty-four hours or so predicted with more or less accuracy according to the nature of the chart. In very awkward cases it maybe necessary to refer back to previous charts and the corresponding forecasts until one as nearly as possible to the current chart has been found. This is not very satisfactory as there are never two charts exactly alike, and quite small differences can result in astonishing differences in the weather pattern. This is another way of saying that local weather is only a microscopic part of the global distribution and furthermore that this global distribution is three- dimensional, not two-dimensional. I have not seen the chart for the day of the Loos battle, but I am quite sure that there would be no indication whatever of the change in wind which brought such tragic results.'

I was to experience this in the early spring of 1917 when, out of a serene blue sky, there suddenly erupted a storm of tropical violence accompanied by hail stones as large as goose eggs, but jagged. The storm was over in minutes and covered only a small area. It was probably due to temperature changes and could not possibly have been predicted.

'Quite a lecture, as you said. Obviously I criticized too soon. And n0ow' Corporal George said 'I will tell you something you will be advised always to remember. They should have informed you at G.H.Q. so stop me if they have. We are not ordinary troops belonging to a regiment and never separated from it. We are, in a way, freaks, lone rangers. We are G.H.Q. troops, our Headquarters and our O.C. being at G.H.Q. Consequently, we are not subject to discipline by anybody outside G.H.Q. no matter who they are. So if you get into trouble with anybody, although I don't think it likely with you — '

'Thanks' I said.

'just tell them that you are a G.H.Q. troop and that if they wish to bring a charge against you it will be necessary for them to refer it to G.H.Q. since there must not, under any circumstances, be any interference with the observations you have to make and the time you make them. In many cases they won't like it but, if the need arises, and you never know in the army, just keep your nerve.' On more than one occasion I was to be grateful for that advice.

The observation post was about two hundred yards east of the Chateau close to an abandoned trench system. The ground was fairly level although rough, and after about one hundred yards further east it descended gently to the Bethune-Lens road. There were no obstacles to interfere with the true flow of the wind and the site was therefore about as good as could be found in the neighbourhood. Sailly Labourse was at the northerly edge of the Lens coalfield and I experienced again the impression of the sadness of the countryside adjacent to a mining district. The site was dominated by a very large colliery spoil heap, the Annequin Fosse, occupied by the enemy, of course, and giving perfect observation for miles around. When making observations I always had a feeling that I was being watched, even at 1 a.m., because I had to use a torch in order to manipulate the anemometer and read the thermometers.

I found it very strange and, in a way, very exciting, the realization that, at the fundamental hours, thousands of observers all over the world were performing manipulations identical to those I also was making.

Close by, but not enemy-occupied, were the small towns of Vermelles and Noeux-les-Mines. These were frequently shelled and occasionally salvos would fall close to the Chateau. It was said that there was a gentleman's agreement about shelling one another's Headquarters, although a six-inch high- explosive shell once wrecked the cookhouse. Perhaps this was a mistake. After the commencement of the Somme battles, when the Germans realized that the British really meant business, even although the balance sheet was a disaster, this agreement was dropped and the shelling of Headquarters became the norm.

One morning about half an hour before setting out to make the 7 a.m. observations I heard a salvo of shells coming over and they seemed to be close to. I only paid attention to them because the sound of their flight was different from anything I had heard before, and they did not seem to explode with the usual violence. On the way to the observation post I noticed about fifty yards away a patch of fog. Apart from the fact that the current weather type was not one associated with fogs, the area covered seemed to be very small. As it was unusual I decided to mention it in the weather diary and then thought no more about it. While I was making my observations the cloud had drifted across the path and it was not a meteorological cloud as I had thought but lachrymatory gas and I had not brought my protective goggles. I think I cried all the day and I was careful not to be caught again. Fortunately I always made out my telegram forms before returning to the Chateau so it was not necessary to grope my way upstairs and ask Corporal George to do them for me.

In all wars and to all arms, except perhaps the P.B.I., there are moments of sheer farce. I experienced a few. When it was my week to make the daytime observations my afternoons were free because the 3 p.m. results were not sent off straight away but were added to the end of the vitally important 6 p.m. telegrams.

On the far side of the Lens road there was a stream, according to the map designated by the descrip­tion Courant de Bully. I decided to explore it. From an early age I had been fascinated by the creatures that lived in fresh water, not merely redpinks, and I cannot even now resist the temptation to examine any likely looking ponds. A pond is a little world of its own, ecologically self-sufficient and therefore fascinating to anyone who will take the trouble to study it.

On the Lens road there was an isolated estaminet, and after pond gazing I sometimes went in for a drink. It is probable that this was within prohibited hours, for the kill joyhand of Mrs Grundy reached out even to troops, many of whom would never go home again. If this was the case the young woman who served me was unconcerned; after all the French had no equivalent of Mrs Grundy so, as far as she was concerned, she was not breaking any law. I called mainly because it was a good chance to converse in French thereby improving my facility with the language. I was not aware that I was regarded as a suspicious person until, one afternoon, I found not the young woman, but an M.P.

'Good afternoon' I said.

'Good afternoon, I want to talk to you.'

'Well, I want a drink, where is m'selle? Are you serving the drinks today?'

'Don't try to be funny. What are you doing here anyway?'

'It's obvious isn't it: as I have just said I have come for a drink.'

'You won't see m'selle as you call her again. She is a spy and will most probably be shot.'

'Good God!' I exclaimed horrified 'I used to have quite long conversations with her, but I certainly never dreamed of anything like that. You are not pulling my leg are you? Are you quite sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. So you speak the lingo. That accounts for it.'

'Accounts for what?' I demanded, suddenly realizing what he was driving at. 'Well, who the hell are you. I have watched you for sometime and for a mere corporal you seem to

Have a lot of time on your hands. You are an R.E., I see. Who is your commanding officer and where is your unit? I don't know of any R.E. Company being stationed anywhere near here.'

So that was it. How many more times would I have to explain the peculiarities of my role to some unbelieving person?

'My headquarters is at G.H.Q. I am a G.H.Q. troop.' 'Never heard of 'em.'

'Well, you are looking at one now.'

'All right, tell me what you do.'

'Now you are asking about secret information, perhaps you ought to be shot.'

'Well I'm buggered.'

'That is your own personal affair' I said nastily. I was becoming annoyed and also apprehensive. It was decidedly uncomfortable to be mixed up with spying even although one was innocent.

'Look' I said 'I am attached to 15th Division Headquarters, although I am not on the Divisional Staff. I think the best thing will be for you to come with me to the Chateau and I will take you to Signals. My work involves sending frequent telegrams, priority telegrams, to G.H.Q. and various Headquarters. The signallers know me and will vouch for me. If that does not satisfy you then I will take you to the General.'

'You can't do that. Who ever heard of a mere corporal going to a General?'

'Stop calling me a mere corporal. Perhaps it will interest you to know that I spoke to the General only this morning.' That was true as he had stopped and asked me what the 'glass' was doing while I was reading the barometer. 'As you must know there is always the possibility of reaching someone of high rank by starting at the bottom of the ladder and working upwards.'

'All right, I'll take your word for it although I have never seen any of your kind before. Anyway don't come here again.'

'There's not much point is there 'I said 'if I can't have a drink. Still I can come for a pleasant walk unless the area is out of bounds, which it isn't as far as I know.'

Thinking about the incident later on I wondered if it had been a ruse on the part of the M.P. to find out what I was doing without asking directly and receiving a dusty answer. Certainly a soldier, not commissioned, wandering about apparently at will must have been a strange phenomenon, and his suspicions must have been increased by the fact that there was a battery of field guns only a little further along from the pond. I did not know about it because I had never heard it in action, but the M.P. might reasonably have believed that I had seen it. Certainly I should have found him out — if I had not been transferred the next day to another area — but by his ruse. If it was a ruse, he would have found out that I was harmless. On the other hand he might have been telling the truth as there was a considerable amount of the collecting of information by unwary troops and passing it onto the enemy. Such people were particularly keen on obtaining information about troop movements and attractive girls in estaminets were obviously the most successful enemy agents.

Le Touret is a village a few miles north-east of Bethune. I will describe it as I knew it. It straggles along the downward-sloping road to Laventie where there was bitter fighting during the first year of the war. Like nearly all the French villages I knew it had no pretence to beauty whatever but the surrounding countryside is pleasant. To the north-east, across the Canald'Aire and a branch which links up with the River Lys is a large wood which was to provide recreational facilities in a few weeks' time. At the top of the road to Laventie, that is to say at the western extremity of the village, there is a large farm of typical Artois construction: an open rectangle having the farmhouse itself as the joining member to two wings, one comprising storerooms and the other sheds for the animals. In the middle is the inevitable large midden, a paradise for flies and rats. The neighbouring village of Loisne is about half a mile to the south but by road it is a very long way away. The direct route is along a water-filled dyke with many willow trees, some of them appearing to be very old. The delightful demoiselle dragon-flies, some blue, some pale green, flit ceaselessly to and fro over the water and frequently they fly joined together in tandem for the purpose of their aerial lovemaking. There is no sign of the ugly complex of mining towns, Noeux-les-Mines, Vermelles, Mozingarbe and Loos of tragic memory, although these are only a few miles away.

Opposite the farm lands bordered by the south side of the Laventie road are two fields, one on either Side of the dyke. In a corner of the field to the west is my observation post, consisting simply of a pole having fixed at the top, five feet from the ground, a square brass plate marked with the compass points and correctly oriented. At the centre of the plate is a pin to take the delicate anemometer. There is also a Stevenson screen, a small louvered cupboard, also about five feet from the ground, and containing dry and wet bulb thermometers. Wind and temperatures are the only measurements made at a single-observer station, but cloud kinds and amounts and estimates of heights have to be recorded in the weather diary. In particular it is necessary to be vigilant when the wind is in a quarter which is dangerous from the point of view of enemy gas attacks. The field to the east of the dyke is very extensive, falling away gently to the very confines of the village. At the top corner, adjacent to the road, there is a strong-point dug into the ground. It has a ten yard protective belt of barbed wire, the lowest strands being not more than a foot from the ground, and all arranged, not haphazardly as is usually the case, but to an intricate geometrical design which ensures that there are no gaps. No creature other than an animal small enough to crawl underneath can get through. Owing to the slope of the land there is an ideal field of fire except along the road where the perspective effect of trees growing close together along the roadside gives an unbroken barrier unless an attack delivered up the road reaches almost to the strong-point. The wire entanglements are so perfectly constructed as to give the impression of an exercise in fortification. If so, it was no doubt assumed that flank support would be provided by fortifying the farm buildings, and eventually this proved to be the case.

I was brought to Le Touret to take the place of a man who was going on leave. The farm was a Head­ quarters of an R.E. Company, the officers billeted in the farmhouse while the men occupied wooden hutments ranged round three sides of a field. A corner room in the yard was used as the orderly room. I had a hut to myself just off the road to the village. I was attached to the Company for rations, shelter and pay, but not for discipline, this being the concern of Meteor G.H.Q., since I was a G.H.Q. troop. I am afraid I was apt to flog this somewhat since it is human nature to make the most of circumstances which act to one's advantage. Apart from the necessity of carrying out the observations and sending the telegrams in code to a prescribed set of addresses, I was on my own and could occupy my spare time as I liked. I made many sketches of the least unlovely parts of the village, having abandoned further attempts at the human form divine, and gave them to the troops. [In an intervening section of his Memoirs Dr Cotton recalls that he became adept at producing sketches of nubile maidens by drawing on his imagina­tion.] As there were no picture-postcards of Le Touret these were very popular and could have occupied most of my spare time.

Because I was, to all intents and purposes, on my own in a world where the life of everyone was strictly regulated, the position of the Meteor observers had been explained previously to the commanders of all units to which observers were attached and as a result I experienced no trouble. What was over­ looked at Le Touret was the necessity to explain my presence to an incoming company if and when a changeover took place. When it did take place I expected that everything would be the same as before. When one such change-over took place the departing Company left at mid-morning but the relieving Company did not arrive until late afternoon. I made good use of this freedom of the camp to 'win' a number of very useful articles: a small 'coffin and flower-pot' stove which fitted very nicely into one corner of my hut, wood and wire netting with which I constructed a very comfortable bunk much superior to sleeping on the floor, a supply of coal which I stored under the bunk, and various odds and ends.

The new Company had arrived somewhat before the time of my 6 p.m. observations and when I went to the post at about ten minutes to the hour the place was full of people all milling around. The method of determining the wind direction was as follows: the anemometer was turned to such a position that the vane was stationary, the wind direction thus being along the plane of the vane. This direction was noted and entered on a special form CM 003; the anemometer was then turned through 180 degrees and the reading again taken. This observation was made three times so that altogether there were six observa­tions, the mean being taken as the wind direction. The object of this procedure was to eliminate the effect of slight variation in direction. On this occasion the wind was in the most dangerous position, whereas it had not been even in the alert position when I made the 3 p.m. observation. Consequently, as no alert warning had been sent it was imperative to send the danger warnings immediately. I there­fore abandoned for the time being the rest of the observations and hurried to the orderly room where the telephone was. The room was bare except for a long trestle table with a pile of papers. The O.C. of the new Company was seated at the middle and the R.S.M. at his side. Usually it would have been the orderly officer but as the Company had only just arrived he and the other commissioned officer were organizing the billeting, the officers in the farmhouse and the men in the hutments. There were two sappers standing at ease by the end wall and I was surprised to see that one of them was a student, Denton, from the St Helens days. He was equally surprised to see me.

I expected that everything would proceed exactly as before so I marched up to the O.C., saluted, and made the usual request:

'May I use the phone sir?'
'Who the bloody hell are you?'
'Meteor sir, I have a number of extremely urgent telegrams to send.' 'Well you can clear out and take your telegrams somewhere else. Who the hell are you anyway barging into my orderly room like this?'
Here we go again, I thought, I shall have to go through that rigmarole all over again. It is becoming monotonous. I tried to explain my position, realizing that this new man knew nothing about it.
'Sir' I said, 'it appears that my position has not been explained to you by the outgoing Company, this, of course, being impossible since they had departed before you arrived.' 'No it wasn't, and now will you get out or must I have you thrown out?' Keep your nerve' Corporal George had said and now was the time for it. Also for L'audace.
'I wouldn't advise that, sir, as you clearly do not know what authority I have' — 'Blimey!' from the R.S.M. — 'Surely you must realize by my interrupting your orderly business in this way that I possess the necessary authority. My telegrams are becoming more urgent with every second's delay. Will you please allow me to send my telegrams immediately and explain my position afterwards?'
He again threatened to have me thrown out so that I had no alternative but I'audace. 'Very well sir' I said 'somebody may get shot at dawn for this and I assure you it won't be me. There are witnesses.'
'Bloody hell' said the R.S.M.
The O.C., speechless by this time, waved his hand towards the phone, which was wall-mounted. I picked up the receiver and turned the handle.
'Is that Signals? I have a number of first priority telegrams... Who am I? Oh my God are you new as well? Is there an officer available?... Good, will you ask him to speak to me please, it is very urgent... Is that the Signals Officer? I am Meteor, I have a number of first priority telegrams to... What is my rank? What the hell has that to do with it? I am a corporal, but I belong to G.H.Q.... Look here, the wind has suddenly changed to the most dangerous direction, and if the Germans release gas now the men in the trenches won't stand a chance. The change of wind has been so sudden that it has not been possible to send a gas alert. As I said, I belong to G.H.Q., and I am acting with the authority of G.H.Q.' Once again the R.S.M. muttered 'Blimey!' and I continued:
'You will take the message yourself. Thank you sir. First priority to Headquarters 40th, 50th, 51st and 55th Divisions. The message— Gas warning, wind at seventeen fifty-five hours south esses by south ack ack ack. Signed Cotton, CO toc toc ON Le Touret LE Toc OURE toc.'
The two sappers grinned but straightened their faces on seeing the scowl on the O.C.'s face.
'Will you repeat that please? Thank you sir. I must now complete my observations after which I shall have more telegrams to send and this time in code. Priority but not first priority. Just one thing more sir. The gas warnings are to be sent to Meteor Second Army and to the Headquarters of the eleventh and fifteenth Corps, but these are for information only and are not priority. Thank you sir.' I replaced the receiver and turned to the O.C.
'You will have heard the conversation sir, at any rate my end of it and I am sure it will have made my position perfectly clear. I must now go and complete my observations. I had to interrupt them when I found that the wind had changed with unexpected suddenness to the most dangerous direction.' 'Yes, that is perfectly clear, but you will understand that I knew nothing about you. What I want to know is how you fit into my Company, what is your relationship to me?'
'I am attached to your Company for shelter, rations and pay.'
'What about discipline?'
'No sir. I belong to G.H.Q. as I had to explain to the Signals Officer and therefore in this respect I am not subject to you...'
'Blimey!' once more from the R.S.M.
'but if you have reason to believe that discipline is necessary, although I can hardly imagine it, I suggest that you contact Meteor Second Army. Alternatively since a D.R. (dispatch rider) from G.H.Q. calls on me once a week for my reports, you could give me a sealed letter addressed to my O.C., Colonel Gold, D.S.O. and I will include it with my material.'
'How many times during the day will you require to use my telephone?'
'Four times sir, 0-one hours, 0-seven hours, thirteen hours and eighteen hours, all GMT.'
'0-one hours, one o'clock in the morning. That means that the orderly room door will have to be unlocked.'

That was the arrangement with the previous Company. There is one thing more. It was the rule for the sentry to waken me at 23.45 hours and I should be grateful if you will also arrange for this. And now I really must complete my observations. They should be made exactly at 18 hours, the exact time at which simultaneous observations are made all over the world.
'You have found yourself a nice cushy job' (sarcastic).
'There are many ways of doing one's duty sir.'
I then saluted and left. The remainder of the O.C.'s reaction I learned from Denton a few days later. The O.C. banged his fist on the table and shouted:
'Of all the bloody ridiculous nonsense, a mere corporal wished on me for rations and pay and actually having the bloody nerve to give me orders.'
Turning to the R.S.M. he asked 'What do you make of it?'
'I don't know what to make of it sir. I had no idea there were people like him in the Army. He certainly ticked you off, if you don't mind my saying so, and he certainly gave orders to the Signals Officer. And did you realize that he seemed to know the names and probably the locations of all the army units, information that even you do not possess. Authority of G.H.Q. is certainly a new one on me and I'm quite sure he wasn't bluffing. We shall have to put up with him I'm afraid. Still, I can't see that he will be any trouble.

'Yes, you are probably right'. The O.C. turned to the two men who both jumped to attention. 'Sapper Denton'.
'Sir.'

'You and this Meteor fellow seemed to recognize one another. Do you know him?'
'Yes sir.'
'Well, go on.'
'Before I joined up, sir, I was an engineering apprentice and I was sent to the technical school to take a part-time day course. Mr, er Corporal Cotton was one of my lecturers.'
'I see, it was a strange coincidence, what was his subject?'
'Electrical engineering and advanced Mathematics sir, although I was given to understand that he was a Physicist as well.'
'I suppose that accounts for it. All right, stand easy.' He turned to the R.S.M. 'We might as well transact some business before he comes and disturbs us again.'
'Yes sir.'

A day or so after this incident I was walking along the road in the direction of Bethune. The strong sun in a cloudless sky threw black shadows across the road, uniform like the rungs of a ladder. Sapper Denton was sitting by the roadside stripped to the waist, his tunic and shirt lying on the ground beside him. His vest was turned inside out and he was diligently searching the seams, muttering angrily as he did so. Every now and then he pressed his thumb nails together and a sickening crack would indicate the end of one of those loathsome creatures which could make life a misery.

'Hello Denton, delousing? I think I will join you as I have a private menagerie of my own to attend to.'

'These bloody chats' Denton said 'wherever do they come from? We didn't have them in the training camps at home. They are enough to drive a fellow daft. Some of the chaps believe they come out of the ground because, they say, the Froggies are dirtier than we are.'

'If you go to the slums of any of our big cities you will soon find out that the French are no worse than we are. There are filthy people everywhere. No, it's the lack of civilized amenities. Very little water and the impossibility of getting a hot bath. Like you, I never saw a louse until I came here.'

'What about my O.C.?' 'Shh... if somebody hears you say that you'll most probably get a stint of pack drill.'
'Stint. Fancy hearing that word out here.' 'Yes, it appears to be associated largely with the mining industry. I never heard it until I went to teach in a mining community. How far away it all seems; the Technical School, the visits to industry like the glassworks and the cable works at Prescot. Somehow I have a feeling that life is going to be very different when we get back.' 'There won't be any chats and that's something. Do you mind if I ask you something personal?'

'I will answer if I can. What is it?'

The men have been very interested in you since the way you stood up to the Captain, especially as he is a holy terror and has a hell of a temper. They all wished they could have seen it. Another thing they want to know is how you got into your lot.'

'The only answer I can give to that is, unbelievably good fortune and the fact that I am a scientist doing a scientific job. But I cannot regard myself as a soldier. I am only a civilian in uniform.'

'Aren't we all?'

'It is not the same. I came out here with no military training whatever, no square-bashing, no weapons training, and in spite of my corporal's stripes, if I was put in charge of a party of men I should have no idea what to do with them.' I little realized how prophetic that remark was to be. 'A few weeks ago somebody realized that I had been sent out without any weapons so I was issued with an enormous revolver which nearly knocked me down when I fired it. Perhaps it is because I regard myself as a civilian that I am not afraid of officers.'

We had no sooner finished dressing than there was the sound of gunfire. 'Damn!' I said.
'Why, what is it?'

'There must be a German plane about. Yes, there it is coming this way. The plane is nothing to worry about, not to us, it's the gunfire. The anti-aircraft guns are old R.H.A. twelve-pounders on make­ shift mountings. They never hit anything because they can't follow quickly enough, but everything they send up has to come down, in the form of a vertical rain of shrapnel and shell fragments.'

'Ought we to lie down or something?'

'No, that is the worst thing to do. The explosions are high up in the sky, not at ground level like ordinary shelling. One-way is to stand upright and make yourself as thin as possible so as to present the least possible target area, but that takes some nerve as it is contrary to all instinct. A tree affords as good a protection as anything. Come on' I said.

We ran across the road and stood with our backs to one of the trees, which were along one side only. The plane sailed on, apparently indifferent to its wake of little white puffs which, continually reaching out, never succeeded in catching up with it. Shrapnel began to fall, bringing leaves and twigs falling from the tree. With a crescendo of sound like the approach of a heavy goods train, an unfragmented shell body crashed on the place where we had been delousing.

'Blimey, no matter where you put your tin hat it wouldn't be much use against that.'

I returned to my hut and sat on my home-made deck-chair, another result of my successful scrounging expedition. 'How can one get into your lot?' Suddenly I realized that I must be one of the most fortunate men in the army and that, as the O.C. had said so nastily, I had found myself a cushy job. I knew by now something of what the P.B.I, had to put up with, and the worst was yet to come. Somehow it didn't seem right, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that in contrast to my Army pay, there were many thousands at home, safe from danger and hardship and making fortunes out of the war.

Part 3

Meteorological Magazine, November 1979, No. 1288, Vol.108, pp.341-347. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 3

[From Le Touret Dr Cotton was posted to Querrieu]

Querrieu is a small town situated at a right-angle bend in the road from Amiens to Albert. In the corner, well back from the road, are the great iron gates of the Chateau, a building like the Chateau at Sailly Labourse but with much more extensive grounds. When I was there it was the Headquarters of the Fourth Army. Opposite the gates is a white-washed estaminet almost big enough to be called a small hotel. Practically the whole of the town is on the westside of the bend. About one hundred yards or so towards Albert the road crosses a little stream and a single-track railway line. A rough side road at the right-hand side doubles back sharply, ascends for about a hundred yards and then falls more steeply to the stream which by now has widened into a series of lagoons called Les Étangs. Strung along this side road is the village of Pont Noyelle.

To the south of the Albert Road the land rises to a height of perhaps two hundred feet and then falls away southwards to the valley of the Somme River. I recalled a beautiful painting of' The sleepy river Somme' in the Manchester Art Gallery. A pleasant land very different from the Artois I had known up to now; undulating, with wide fields and many scattered woods, but with none of the hedgerows which add so much beauty to the English landscape. At the highest point there is a monument to the 1870 war, but why they should want to commemorate the defeat of gross stupidity — being repeated even now in this far greater war — by machine-like efficiency I couldn't imagine.

The meteorological station was in a house at the top of the street of Pont Noyelle. It had a very complete equipment: inside the house a meteorological pattern barometer, a modification of the more familiar Fortin type, and a barograph which recorded on a clockwork-driven chart the changes with time of the barometric pressure. The rate of change, and whether up or down, was a valuable aid to forecasting. On the opposite side of the road, at the highest point, was a high platform with a cup anemometer mounted at one corner. This recorded not windspeed, but the number of feet travelled by the wind. The difference of the two readings, one at the beginning and the other at the end of a time interval as measured by stop-watch, divided by that time interval, gave the average wind speed over that interval. There was also the graduated plate mounted at a height of five feet from the ground and used with the portable anemometer as at Le Touret and Sailly Labourse. The cup anemometer was valuable because it could withstand high winds which would damage the delicate portable type. In such a case the wind direction had to be estimated and with experience this could be done with good accuracy. There were also a louvered Stevenson screen containing dry-bulb and wet-bulb thermometers, a rain-gauge, and a sunshine recorder.

Last, and of very great importance, was the theodolite specially designed for the observation of pilot balloons, like toy balloons which, when filled with hydrogen so as just to lift from the ground a specified weight, rose, when released, with a vertical speed of 500 feet per minute. Strictly speaking this could only be the rate of vertical climb if there was no vertical component of the wind's total velocity, a condition which was reasonably fulfilled with all but very light winds and with thundery conditions. The balloon's trajectory through the air was therefore the resultant of this free lift and the horizontal motion imposed by wind force and direction. This varied with altitude, sometimes considerably, and it was then difficult to get the balloon into the field of view again after the eye had been taken from the eye-piece in order to read the two verniers giving orientation and elevation. The theodolite, an expensive instrument, was taken indoors after each ascent and it was therefore necessary to orient it each time on some object whose exact bearing was known. We used the 1870 memorial for this purpose.

The Meteor Office, where I received telegrams and drew the synoptic charts, was one in a little town of Armstrong huts in the grounds of the Chateau. I was delighted to find that Corporal George was the other observer, two being required for pilot balloon ascents, one to use the theodolite, the other to record the readings. There was also the officer's batman, a young Irish boy, Banaghan, who should not have been in the army because of his youth, although he was safe enough at an Army Headquarters. He also acted as messenger; he was very simple. Our billet was the top storey of a barn at the top of the street at Pont Noyelle. It did not have the luxury of my hut at Le Touret, but it was comfortable enough except during the bitter winter of 1916/17 when the nights were exceedingly cold. I then missed my little stove.

The purpose of the balloon ascents was the computation of wind corrections for the artillery, this being necessary for three reasons: the use of many calibres of gun with ranges of a few thousand yards to several miles, each range having its own time of flight and its own height to climb into the upper air; map firing at targets which could not be seen but whose position was known on the map, this being particularly important at night and at all times when the weather was too unfavourable for artillery spotting; the use of howitzers with their high-angle fire and a trajectory quite different in shape from the flat trajectory of ordinary artillery — with times of flight as long as sixty seconds the absence of wind corrections could render a costly bombardment almost useless, or even result in the shelling of our own trenches. Four ascents were made during the twenty-four hours, at the fundamental hours. For the 1 a.m. observations the balloon carried a little home-made Chinese lantern and its weight had to be taken into account when filling the balloon. During the day-time observations the one who was recording was able, after some practice, to compute the upper winds in the time intervals between successive readings, a twenty-inch slide rule being useful for this purpose. The artillery corrections were computed indoors and the telegrams to Meteor and to the various artillery Headquarters were prepared in a remarkably short time.

Early in the September of the apparently never-ending Somme battles the adjutant came by H.Q. car and told me that I was to be taken to G.H.Q. He brought with him a replacement. As he sat at the front with the driver and I sat at the back, I had no chance to ask him where I was to go. I did get the information that I should only be staying at G.H.Q. for a few days and I had visions of miserable nights at the infantry barracks. Fortunately I was given a very comfortable room over the sweet-shop of M'sieu Brely Fatou in the Grand' Place. Each night before going to bed, I was given a cup of coffee with a generous lacing of cognac, and the only snag was the mattress, one of those things about two feet thick and, of course, no bedclothes. Still I didn't grumble when I thought about the infantry barracks.

As I was only staying at Meteor for a few days, no attempt was made to fit me into the organization. Because of my draughtsmanship I drew the weather charts based on the 7 a.m. observations and on the local observations. Copies were made on a jelly graph, the best copy going to the Commander in Chief, Sir Douglas Haig, and others to various headquarters.

My most important task, and the real reason for my staying several days, was the analysis of wind observations taken over a long period in the neighbourhood of Armentieres. If a straight line is drawn in a south-easterly direction from Cap Gris Nez, the land to the east is, on the whole, very flat, the Flanders plain, while to the west it is much more elevated, there thus being an irregular escarpment running in a south-easterly direction. My job was to find out if some peculiarities in the early morning winds were due to this escarpment. Later events were to show that this was not a mere theoretical exercise but that, on one occasion at least, it was to be of very great importance. The investigation consisted of determining the north-east flowing and south-east flowing components of all the winds in this locality for which data were available. A comparison of the two components showed that, no matter what the total wind direction, there was a marked component in the north-east flowing direction but not in the other in the early hours of the morning. This component was particularly marked during anticyclonic conditions when, with very small or even zero barometric gradient, the gradient wind, that is, the wind appropriate to the concentration of isobars — the ordinary wind — was also either very light or zero. This component was a katabatic wind produced by the draining of cold, and therefore heavy, air from high to lower ground.

When I had completed the investigation the C.O. sent for me. He asked,
'Are you afraid of heights?'
'I don't think so, Sir', I replied 'although I have had no experience of great heights. I can look over the edge of a high steep cliff or from a top floor window of a tall building without feeling in any way dizzy.'

He then abruptly changed the subject.

'Pilot balloons give only the wind velocity and direction, and therefore the results can be used only to determine the correction necessary to neutralize the wind pressure on a projectile. They give no indica­tion of the resistance to motion. For this it is necessary to know the density of the air at various heights, and as it is impossible under war conditions to attach instruments to pilot balloons it follows that an observer must be employed for this purpose.'

'But we have someone doing this', I pointed out.
'Yes', he said 'but he doesn't like heights, that is why I asked you if you are afraid of heights.' 'You want me to undertake this work, Sir?'
'That is the idea. Lieut. Young is going to England tomorrow and will be away for a fortnight.

I want you to take his place for that time to see if you can do the work successfully. If you can it may be that it will be your contribution until the end of the war.'

So the following day I went by H.Q. car to a kite balloon almost due east of the ruined city of Ypres. The accommodation was in a large farm so that there was plenty of room for officers' and men's messes and, very important, for the packing of the parachutes, this necessitating a long room and a long wide table. When I arrived it was almost time for the 1 p.m. ascent, the fundamental hours of 7 a.m., 1 p.m. and 6 p.m. being kept whatever the purely military requirements of artillery spotting. Actually this combination of two entirely different duties did not work well and soon afterwards the balloon was withdrawn from the fighting zone and used solely for meteorological purposes.

It was an ideal day for one's first essay in upper-air observations, and I asked if I might make the ascent. There was very little wind, the sky was blue and there were many small detached cumulus clouds, all having the horizontal base indicating the level at which condensation took place. I estimated that height to be 3700 feet — I had become expert by this time; actually it was just under 4000 feet. I wore the leather Sidcote suit, a leather flying helmet, leather gauntlets with a flap which could be fastened back so as to leave the fingers free; also parachute harness. If one has to jump, the velocity of free descent before the parachute opens can be quite high and there is a violent jerk at the moment of opening. Knowing this, I decided against a harness which had a strap passing from front to back between the legs. If it was not quite in the right place one might suddenly lose interest even in the problem of landing. There was also a razor-sharp knife for cutting myself free of the parachute on landing, if this should be necessary.

I climbed into the glorified clothes basket along with the balloon officer who was making the ascent with me. A rigger tied by special knot the parachute rope to a ring in the harness and I then checked my instruments; a beautiful portable aneroid barometer, graduated in hundreds of feet and so sensitive that the needle would deflect for the small change in height if one placed it on the ground; a prismatic compass; Pitot tube for indicating the wind velocity; psychrometer. This was an elaborate form of wet and dry thermometer. Each thermometer was housed in a metal tube which projected from a chamber containing a clockwork-driven fan. When the fan rotated air was drawn up the tubes and therefore past the thermometer bulbs, this being much superior to the static thermometers used in the usual Stevenson screens. The compass was used to determine the wind direction. The balloon, being attached at one end of the cable, set itself along the wind direction and thus all that was necessary was to take a bearing on the attachment to the cable, this being in the form of a steel V. When I had checked the instruments and also the telephone connection with a signaller on the ground, the balloon officer gave the thumbs-up sign to the flight sergeant. He in turn gave the order: 'Let go the guys', and I began to laugh. It was a joke I enjoyed every time I made an ascent but, strangely enough, nobody else seemed to see it. As the balloon's height increased everything appeared progressively smaller so that eventually it was, I suppose, something like looking at the surrounding country from the top of a mountain except that there was no terra firma under one's feet. The balloon was stopped at five hundred foot intervals, the heights being given by the barograph. At the height of the cloud base there was a sudden and beautiful change. There was a very slight haze on the ground although hardly enough to affect visibility. At this particular height it had the appearance of the surface of a dead- smooth, milky coloured sea and the clouds looked like little icebergs floating on it. At the level of the cloud base condensation commences and the latent heat of evaporation is given up, thereby producing a rise in temperature instead of the progressive fall in temperature as the height increases. I therefore stopped the balloon at this level so that I could take this temperature. I knew about inversion, as the phenomenon is called, but it was very exciting actually to be in the middle of one. As far as I remember we reached four thousand feet, the inclination of the cable due to the slight wind causing the winch to payout more than would have been the case with a dead calm. At this height I could just make out the white cliffs of Dover.

It was during an ascent at sunrise that I had the most beautiful experience. It was perfectly calm with a cloudless sky apart from a few pink wisps of cirrus. To the east the sun had just cleared the horizon, an orange-coloured disc. For some reason I turned round and looked to the west and there, diametric­ ally opposite the sun and about to set behind the ruins of Ypres, was the full moon, looking very pale as though shocked by what she had seen. The sun and full moon both in the sky together; God-made beauty in the heavens, man-made hell on earth.
While there was still happiness in the world, and love instead of hatred and slaughter, Graham Peel composed a lovely little song called 'The Early Morning' to Hilaire Belloc's words:

'My brother, good morning: My sister, good night'.

Another beautiful phenomenon was the rainbow round the shadow of the balloon when we ascended into sunshine above a uniform cloud sheet. The bow was a complete circle with the balloon's shadow at the centre and occasionally, but not always, there was a faint secondary bow of greater diameter and with the order of the spectral colours reversed. I was to see this several times but I never again saw the rising sun and the setting full moon in the sky together. Cecil Lewis in Sagittarius Rising also saw the circular rainbow but apparently only once. It was early evening with the sun's rays almost horizontal and his shadow and the surrounding rainbow were on the almost vertical face of a vast cumulonimbus cloud. He entered the cloud through his own shadow.

Since I was engaged in war duties it was inevitable that there should be a certain amount of un­pleasantness. For example there was a German six-inch high-velocity gun a few miles away. It was spotted by the flashes and located by intersections from my own balloon and those on either side. It fired at us from time to time but I think it was merely devilment on the part of the gunners since a visibly small object several miles away and several thousand feet up in the air is an exceedingly difficult target.

More disturbing were the antics of young pilots flying Sopwith Camels. They had great fun, to them, zooming onto the balloon and almost running their wheels along the top. A very small error and they would have ripped the balloon from end to end. We could see their grinning faces and on such occasions one of the balloon officers used the most awe-inspiring language I have ever heard. Of course they were only having fun, and as the average life of a pilot was only about three weeks they had some justification in getting their fun when they could. All the same I wished that they would go somewhere else for it.

In spite of the gun and in spite of the crazy pilots I was sorry when my fortnight with the balloon came to an end and I was taken back to Fourth Army Headquarters and the Somme Battles.

The long drawn-out struggle called the Battle of the Somme has been written about many times. At the time of the Battle of the Marne in 1914, a battle which decided the ultimate outcome of the war, that Germany should not win and thereby achieve mastery over the whole of Europe, Joffre, at the most critical moment, turned to Sir John French and said 'Monsieur le Maréchal c'est la France qui vous supplie'. And now Britain was answering Joffre's prayer and tens of thousands of young men to whom France meant nothing whatever were watering the land of France with their blood. It looked as though the mass sacrifice would go on for ever and with nothing gained, for with each obstacle overcome they were confronted with another one almost similar. Our High Command, not having been brought up to control vast armies of hundreds of thousands, was learning the hard way, and the troops paid the bill.

For me and for all of us at Meteor life continued unchanged. Occasionally I would go to Amiens on the Section motor bike, a Douglas horizontally opposed twin cylinder machine, and very good too. This was to make purchases for the officers' mess, and it gave me a chance to look at the shops, especially a big bookshop in the Rue des Trois Cailloux. I also visited the Cathedral, the front heavily sandbagged. Also Corporal George thought it was time he gave me a few drawing lessons as he thought my efforts were all too niggling. In return I gave him lessons in Physics although without Mathematics one cannot get very far. There was a shortage of the little tin holders for the candles of the home-made lanterns and the Headquarters workshops received an indent for a fresh supply, surely the most strange assignment ever given in wartime.

The winter of 1916/17 was bitterly cold and the 1 a.m. balloon ascents on nights of clear sky and bitter east wind were something to be dreaded. On one such night but with hardly any wind I was at the theodolite, and as my sight in those days was very keen I kept the lantern in sight up to 20,000 feet, which meant that the observations took forty minutes. As I could not move about and stamp my feet and as I was only wearing mittens so as to keep the fingers free, I was frozen by the time I lost the balloon. I hurried to the office and was foolish enough to warm my hands by the fire. The resulting aching was excruciating and I never did that again. We had a jar of ration rum, thick like treacle and red like wine, and I took a good dose of that and went to bed, but it was a long time before the intolerable ache went from my fingers.

The office was next door to a cottage occupied by an old lady who also remembered the German occupation of 1870 (although she, apparently, did not experience any ill treatment), her daughter and little granddaughter, aged about five. We used to visit them just for a talk, and instead of the thin rather sour white wine they favoured I brought a packet of tea which they had not tasted before. On one occasion while talking to the little girl, pointing to various things so that she could say what they were, I put salt in my tea thinking it was sugar. After that I was always M'sieu Sel.

In the early spring of 1917, the German Army of the Somme disappeared. One day they were there, the next day they were gone. They withdrew, a strategic withdrawal in the real sense, a victory not a defeat. They withdrew a distance of thirty miles to a position so strong as to be thought impregnable. And it would have been impregnable to the bull-at-a-gate tactics currently employed. They turned the beautiful countryside they evacuated into a desert, destroying towns, roads, crops, orchards, everything which could contribute to human habitation. The wrecked towns and villages became the back areas and not a single civilian was left in them. They shortened their communications by thirty miles, they increased the British lines of communication by the same distance. The land they gave up and destroyed was French, not German, and was therefore of no emotional significance to them.

There was nothing for it but for the British Army to move after them, and that meant Meteor as well. We loaded all our equipment and our belongings on to a large lorry and said goodbye to the little family next door. The little girl's goodbye to her M'sieu Sel was very tearful. We climbed the hill leading to Corbie and I looked at the Calvary for the last time. At Corbie we joined the road from Amiens to St Quentin which runs due east, straight as an arrow, except for a small conformity with the gradient at Foucancourt. There was no mistaking the battle areas, there were so many shell-holes that there was hardly one which did not overlap its neighbours. The trees were mere stumps giving a dis­ quieting air of desolation and some were blown completely out of the ground. The sides of the road were littered with the debris of motor vehicles of all kinds.

At Estrées, or what was once Estrées but now almost in the real Biblical sense had not one stone on another, a branch road runs south to Villers Carbonnel and then to a group of once pleasant towns, Marchelepot, Briost, Misery, all deserted. At Villers Carbonnel a narrow road runs eastwards, parallel to the main St Quentin road. There must have been a bridge over the river, but this had been mined and the river was now widened into a very extensive swamp. By the riverbank were the ruins of a small village and in the churchyard, leaning at a crazy angle, a large iron cross decorated with elaborate strap-iron curlicues. The Somme River takes a roughly northerly course as far as St Quentin, where it turns west and then takes a very meandering route to Amiens and finally Abbeville and the sea. It formed the junction between the Third Army to the north and the Fifth Army to the south.

I went fishing occasionally but there was not much pleasure in it as I only caught eels. These are dreadful creatures for, apart from refusing to die, they swallow bait, hook, and as much of the line as they can get down. To recover the tackle it is often necessary to slit them to almost half-way down. I would not have eaten anything from that river no matter what I caught.

The road east from Villers Carbonnel is at first flat, then rises gently to about half a mile from the river to which it then descends, rather sharply. Fourth Army Headquarters was in an enormous Nissen hut erected on the flat area. This was the operations room. The Headquarters staff were housed in small Nissen huts, lining both sides of the road, almost like a street. Small gardens had been constructed in front of these and they looked very gay when the flowering plants were in bloom. If it had not been for the war, and if the life of the neighbouring towns had been that of peace time, the situation would have been almost idyllic.

The Meteor office was a large hut sited at the highest point and opposite, on the other side of the road, was a high platform with a cup anemometer exactly as at Pont Noyelle. The underneath of the platform was closed in so as to make a room in which the theodolite could be stored when not in use. There were also the Stevenson screen, the pole-mounted graduated brass plate for surface wind measure­ments, and the rain-gauge. The sunshine recorder was on the platform placed so no shadow would fall across it. It consisted of a glass sphere which brought the sun's rays to a focus on a strip of special paper which was blackened by the heat, the intensity of the blackening being a rough measure of the intensity of the light. This paper strip was graduated in hours, the times of sunshine and of no sunshine being indicated.

The cross-section of a Nissen hut is roughly semicircular, the walls leaning inwards. Also they are not very rigid and are therefore quite unsuitable for the mounting of important scientific instruments. For this reason a solid brick pillar had been built in one corner, the barometer fixed on one side and the barograph resting on the top. The furnishing of the hut was a large centre table, stools, and at the end remote from the door three bunks. There was a shelf for books, a cupboard for odds and ends and hooks for greatcoats, hats and revolvers. Banaghan had no arms of any kind; if he had been issued with a rifle he must have been allowed to hand it in when he became a batman.

The fighting front was very quiet for the whole of the time Fourth Army Headquarters was at Villers Carbonnel and it would have been crazy to have attacked the new German defences at that time and with­ out vast preparation also for the Germans to leave these defences so soon after their withdrawal and to cross the desert which they themselves had made. They could afford to wait. I had a feeling that our stay here was meant to be a quiet interlude before the fireworks started again. I had no complaints and neither had the others, particularly as the food was now very much better than that we had been getting at what the troops called 'Bacon fat corner' at Querrieu. There was precious little bacon.

An idyllic situation can only be enjoyed if one is in an idyllic state of mind and that was far from the case. The whole of the terrifying casualties suffered during the course of the Somme battles were not disclosed, although we now know that on the very first day alone there were losses of about 60,000 men. One of the regiments to be decimated on that tragic first day was the 5th North Staffs., the regiment I most probably would have joined. If it had not been for that letter from the War Office I realized that most probably I should have been one of the 60,000.

Part 4

Meteorological Magazine, January 1980, No. 1290, Vol.109, pp.22-26. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 4

'What do you intend to do this evening? It is such a beautiful evening that it is a shame to waste it.' This was Corporal George speaking. I had intended to swot some new German after the 6 p.m. balloon ascent was finished. To a scientist and an engineer German is a very important language and I was not all that good at it.

'Have you something in mind?' I asked.

'Yes, I thought we might go sketching. There must be some interesting material in these towns', and he pointed to Marchélepot and Briost on the map.

'There are at least two hours of daylight left, so I shall have time to make one or two watercolour sketches. There are some ruined houses at Marchélepot which will just suit you with your liking for fine detail, although I wish you wouldn't niggle so much.'

I found a convenient seat on a fallen tree and made a sketch of a ruined house at Marchelepot. I then went to find Corporal George who was making a very attractive painting of a very large barn at Briost, a village on a slope just above the river. The barn was severely damaged by shell-fire and all the more interesting because of it. As the painting was not quite finished I decided to make a sketch of my own. I wondered what he would say I felt rather proud of my two sketches.

'Your drawing of Marchelepot is quite good, although you still don't let yourself go. The same with the barn. I think you ought to try charcoal for a change. You won't be able to get in so much detail, but your drawings will have more character.'

He pointed to two lines I had drawn across the sky on my sketch of the barn.

'Whatever are these?'

'Cloud of course.'

'Oh, what kind? There isn't any cloud anyway.'

'It's supposed to be a band of cirrostratus.'

'I've never seen cirrostratus looking like that.'

'Well I have.'

'But there isn't any cloud. Put in what you see, not what you don't see and then your drawings will be More convincing and more honest. You can leave things out for the purpose of composition and if they will be a distraction from the main subject, but that is not the same thing as putting in things that aren't there.'

***

Early in July 1917 we learned that 4th Army H.Q. was to move to Bray Dunes on the Channel Coast. I was sorry in a way to leave the quiet of Villers Carbonnel, but a spell 'by the seaside' was exciting. The pleasure was tempered by the certainty that such a move, from the very south of the Army to the extreme north, could only mean one thing. There was to be another offensive before winter set in. By now the vital importance to the Army Commanders of reliable meteorological information covering all aspects of operations was fully realized: one no longer received the jibe about one's cushy job. With the abandonment of that unreliable weapon chlorine gas supplied from gas cylinders, the necessity for the early gas alerts and warnings no longer applied. But more and more the Commanders relied on accurate weather forecasts and considering the then scarcity of information in comparison with today's plethora, the forecasts were remarkably accurate. Corrections for the artillery were also of progressively increasing importance, as I was soon to find out.

The lorry containing all our equipment belonged to the Army Service Corps and so did the driver. I travelled with him in the cab but the others went by car so as to be ready for us as soon as we arrived. We took two days over the journey, and very pleasant they were, as the route was through undevastated countryside. We stayed for the night at the little town of Pernes, at a hotel in one corner of the Grand Place. I sensed that there was something wrong with the place and realized what it was as I was sitting at a little table on the pavement in front of the hotel; the driver had gone off on his own somewhere and I had a feeling that he had been here before. The trouble with the town was its unexpected quietness, there being few people about. Then it dawned on me: no men, and no-one came for a drink; in fact, I believe that the two of us were the only guests in the hotel. As soon as I finished my drink I decided to go for a walk. I should have enjoyed it, as it was pleasant enough, but I could not get rid of the sadness of the place.

As I had a separate bedroom I had no idea whether the driver stayed the night at the hotel. I had a feeling that he did not, but he was there for breakfast. Our schedule was to arrive at the Kursaal at Bray Dunes not later than 5.30 p.m. so as to give time to set up the theodolite and be in good time for the 6p.m. balloon ascent, an important ascent because of the delay occasioned by the move, because the Belgians who had previously manned the sector adjacent to the sea had not made upper-air observations, and because of the effect of land- and sea-breezes which sometimes resulted in a surface wind being almost diametrically opposite in direction to the wind in the upper air.

The driver took the longest route, which was not scheduled and could have been avoided, although the alternative route was not so good. He drove the lorry to a large shed somewhere in the middle of Dunkirk, jumped down, said 'See you in the morning' and began to walk away.

'Where do you think you are going?' I said, 'this isn't a pleasure trip; we have to be at Bray Dunes by five-thirty.'

'Well we won't will we.'

'Why not?'

'Because I've got a girl in Dunkirk.'

'Look here' I said, 'you can't do that. I order you to take me to Bray Dunes now!'

'Who the bloody hell do you think you are? I take my orders from my officer and from nobody else' and he went off to his girl; I couldn't prevent him from doing that. But my presence of mind deserted me and I accepted the position and did nothing. Bray Dunes was only seven or eight miles away and I could easily have walked there, informed Meteor of the situation and possibly have arranged for another A.S.C. driver to bring in the lorry. I tried to find an M.D., although by then it wouldn't have been of much use, but I couldn't find one and concluded that they must have had girlfriends in Dunkirk as well.

The driver turned up next morning at about half past eight, so I had missed not only the 6 p.m. observations of the previous day but the 1 a.m. and 7 a.m. as well. There would be hell to pay, and there was. The artillery in the coast sector had been supplied with wind corrections by the Second Army, further south and where there was no modification due to the proximity of the sea. For the shorter ranges the corrections were entirely wrong and it was our own men who had been shelled. I explained the situation and then set up the theodolite just where we were, opposite the Kursaal, and the telegrams were sent first priority. What happened to the driver I didn't enquire, as I was kept busy helping to prepare the station for normal working.

To anyone who has made measurements of the surface winds only, in areas where the wind is

influenced by the sea, but not of the winds at higher altitudes, the results of such observations can be quite surprising. There can be occasions when the surface wind is almost diametrically opposite to the wind at high altitudes, the gradient wind, and it is then necessary to change the orientation of the theodolite telescope quite rapidly in order to keep the balloon in the field of view. Since the observer has to take his eye from the eyepiece in order to read the verniers and call the readings to the recorder there is always the possibility at such times that the balloon might have moved out of the field of view, finding it again sometimes being very difficult and resulting in a loss of time, a serious matter because of the limited time interval between successive readings. From the observational point of view it is therefore fortunate that the sea- and land-breezes do not extend to a very great height, sometimes to no

more than a few hundred feet; the finding of the balloon, if momentarily lost, is therefore facilitated by its nearness and consequently comparatively large, size in the field of view. Above the sea winds are the gradient winds, as given by the direction and spacing of the isobars. With large differences in the directions of the winds at the surface and at high altitudes it is not uncommon for the corrected winds for small calibre guns to be almost opposite to those for higher calibres. It was this which caused the shelling of our own areas when corrected winds for an area not influenced by the sea were used by the artillery near the coast.

The observational difficulty caused by rapid changes in orientation does not arise at places away from the coast. There, the wind is normally a gradient wind at all heights, and the changes in orientation are so small that the balloon is lost not through wandering out of the field of view but through entering cloud or becoming visually so tiny that it can no longer be seen.

The promenade at Bray Dunes ends at the eastern end at a very high sand dune and east of that, close to the sea, is a line of lower dunes, behind which the land is flat. There are no sand dunes the whole length of the promenade, but firm sands, not quite covered at high tide. Built into the dunes east of the high isolated dune was a small fort manned by French soldiers. I never saw it in action exception one night when they shot down one of our pilot balloons by machine-gunfire. The light, steadily rising into the sky, was clearly something new to them, and they had to be informed the next morning. Our hut was placed on the flat land at the foot of the high dune, and on the top of this was a wooden platform for the theodolite.

The weather was fine and warm on the whole, and in between observations we could enjoy sea bathing. I learned for the first time the danger of the undertow. The waves of the sea are circularly polarized, that is to say the water particles, instead of moving up and down, move in circles, the direction of the wave-front being at right angles to the plane of these circles. At the top of the crest the water motion is forward, but in the long trough the direction is out to ea. If the waves are high enough the velocity of the undertow can be surprisingly high, and it is augmented when the tide is ebbing (because of the gravitational pull of the moon.) One afternoon at a time of ebb tide I was bathing by myself and unwisely went beyond the breakers. On the shore side of the breakers there is no danger because friction reduces the undertow, but beyond these there is no such effect. The current was so strong that I realized I could not get back. Fortunately there were rows of groynes running out to sea; I managed to work my way to one of them and literally pulled myself hand over hand to the shore. A more amusing incident was when Banaghan and I had just finished bathing and were walking across the beach, stark naked, when General Rawlinson rode by. Banaghan stood stiffly to attention and saluted. I did nothing, remembering that one should not salute if not wearing a cap. As far as I know the rule said nothing about the rest of one's clothes.

The Meteor office was a good-sized room on the first floor of the Kursaal, no doubt previously used as a bedroom. A few yards away at the side of the road was the Post Office, housed in a large Nissen hut, and opposite to it a large car park for staff cars. One day I was just about to leave after enquiring about mail when there was a series of loud explosions, very close. Like everyone else I threw myself flat on the floor and hoped for the best. Everybody knew that there was an offensive in the offing and it looked as though the agreement regarding the shelling of Army and Divisional Headquarters no longer existed. The bombs, for that is what they were, were obviously intended for the Fourth Army H.Q. but, luckily, they only killed one man and a cage-full of carrier pigeons. The man was given a full military funeral, and, never having seen one before, I felt shocked when, on the return, the band played a jolly marching tune.

Besides the R.F.C. there was a squadron of the R.N.A.S. operating in the area. I had occasionally seen a young man in an immaculate blue uniform lolling in the back seat of a Lancia saloon, and two ratings in the front, one the driver and the other no doubt to open doors. I was surprised when he turned up one day just as we were about to make the 1 p.m. balloon ascent. By that time we were rather scruffy, with worn, not very smart uniforms, and somehow I resented the arrival of this beautiful apparition. He explained that he had noticed our balloons from time to time and guessed what we were doing. Would we mind if he watched, he asked, and of course we said no. I did the recording and manipulation of the slide rule and I could sense his astonishment when he realized that I was working out the results in the one-minute intervals between the readings. It was a good ascent, to 15,000 feet as far as I can remember, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before I had completed the computations, made out the telegrams I knew the codes by heart and sent Banaghan off to Signals. I made a copy of the data of wind direction and velocity versus height and gave it to him. He was quite unnecessarily grateful and I learned the reason why. As he left with his driver the other rating lagged behind and whispered that he only made one ascent per day, in the morning, and that it took him all day to work it out. I only hoped that the R.N.A.S. pilots didn't mind if they encountered a wind entirely different from that predicted for them. The world was an unjust place, I mused. Here was I, university man with a first-class honours degree, a mere Corporal dressed in a scruffy uniform, and there was he, obviously incompetent for the job somebody had wangled for him, dressed in a beautiful blue uniform and driven about in a dream of a car.

A pilot lives with the weather; from his point of view it can be his friend or it can be his enemy and it is the function of his meteorological advisers to tell him which to expect. This applies even today, but far more so in the days of the First World War, with gimcrack planes, to fly which at all was a miracle. 'Jobs for the boys' is, unfortunately, an inevitable characteristic of business and politics, but it is wholly reprehensible when the fate of a nation and the freedom of its people is at stake. I could never understand why, with competent Meteor observers on the spot, the R.N.A.S. did not ask for the complete information which only Meteor could supply, instead of relying on a man who, however admirable as a person, was obviously not competent to hold such a responsible position.

I found a bookshop in Rosendael, a walk of about four miles, and bought a copy of Alphonse Daudet's delightful Lettres de mon moulin. It was a pleasant change from the German texts I had been reading. He had a name of his own for all the bright stars. 'Voici le Ráteau ou les Trois rois (Orion). Un peu plus bas brille Jean de Milan, le flambeau des astres (Sirius). Sur cette étoile lá, voici ce quel les bergers racontent. Il parait qu'une nuit Jean de Milan avec les Trois rois et la Poussiniére (the Pleiades) furent invités á la noce d'une étoile de leurs amies.' These delightful imaginings seemed to be centuries away from the times in which I was then living. A beautiful and of make-believe which can exist only in a happy mind.

Apart from sea-bathing, an occasional cinema show, or a visit to Dunkirk, the work at Meteor Fourth Army was exactly the same as at the other Army Headquarters. A change from routine was afforded by a request to assist at artillery ranging tests at Coxyde, some miles east of Bray Dunes. I was detailed to do this. A pilot-balloon ascent was made immediately before I started, so that the only equipment I had to take with me was the portable anemometer and a stop-watch. I went by coast road, called by the Army the Aeolian Road, on the motor bike and found the artillery testing station near the coast, with the guns, of various calibres, all pointing out to sea. I explained the pilot-balloon results to the officer in charge and worked out the corrected winds for the times of flight to be used during the tests. I also determined the surface wind just prior to each firing, it being relevant to short ranges, but of no importance at long ranges for which the shell spent a negligible amount of time in the lowest levels. It was interesting to stand directly behind the gun and watch the shell, like a black ball with a fuzzy edge, no doubt due to the rotation.

The Germans had perfect observation along the Aeolian Road because of the flat terrain and their artillery occasionally indulged in a strafe, which may have been a scheduled operation, or even pot shots at anything observed. Actually the road was used very little and, as far as I remember, I did not meet a single vehicle or party of men all the way to Coxyde. On the way back they started shelling the road about a mile ahead of me, and I flattered myself that, having seen me, they put on a show for my benefit. All I could do was to sit by the roadside, smoke a cigarette or two, and wait until they decided to stop.

During the First World War there was published a journal called Blighty which was circulated to the troops in France. Obviously it was by no means highbrow, but consisted of light reading and illustrations, all pen-and-ink drawings. In one issue there was a competition open only to members of the Armed Forces. As I still had my monster revolver I regarded myself as eligible. They were offering two prizes, one of one pound, the other of ten shillings, for the two best drawings which would be published in Blighty. I decided to have a go. At the entrance to the farm at Le Touret there were, on either side, two trees whose overhanging branches would have produced a conventional heart-shaped space in between if the bases of the trunks had been much closer together. I therefore made a drawing of the trees, modified in this way, and in the space between drew a silhouette of a soldier saying 'good-bye' to his girl. I did not suggest a title, but it was published with the caption 'Hearts are Trumps'. I obtained the second prize of ten shillings, a useful addition to a Corporal's pay, and a few weeks later I received an upside-down pipe. That, I think, is the best description. It looked like an ordinary pipe, but the opening of the bowl was at the bottom, the top being closed. There must have been a duct leading from the top of the bowl, through the briar to the stem. As I didn't smoke a pipe I gave it away. It must have been a pig to clean. I also received an offer of marriage from a girl in Wisbech.

A little while after the war I was in Liverpool Lime Street Station and as I had some time to spare, I looked at the books and things on the bookstall. I was surprised to find my drawing of 'Hearts are Trumps' in the form of a picture postcard, and this time coloured, blue and pink as far as I remember.

Part 5

Meteorological Magazine, February 1980, No. 1291, Vol.109, pp.58-63. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 5

[Dr Cotton described the battle of Passchendaele, which took place in late summer and autumn of 1917.]

The assessment of any great event should be made, not on the short term, but on its long-term consequences. In the following spring the Germans launched two offensives which were intended to end the war in their favour. The first was the drive towards Amiens to separate the British from the French. The second was to reach the Channel coast and there by isolate the British Army from England. Both came within a short distance of success, and both failed for the same reason, shortage of men. The reserves who would have turned the scale in Germany's favour were buried in the mud of Passchendaele.

With the end of the fighting and the advent of winter the British troops near the coast were withdrawn and the extreme left wing of the Allied armies again occupied by the Belgians. Apart from the fighting in the initial stages of the war, this Belgian sector had been very quiet; in fact, aerial photographs showed the tracks made by pedestrians leading from the Belgian to the German positions. There had clearly been much fraternization. When the British took over this fraternization came to a sudden end.

A seaside place, so attractive in summer, becomes less inviting when the weather is cold and wet and the days short. Meteor left along with the rest of the Fourth Army Headquarters Staff and I went to Meteor G.H.Q. which had moved from Hesdin to Montreuil. Montreuil is a walled town of great historical interest. It stands very high and the encircling wall is complete, a walk round it being a pleasant experience and affording magnificent views of the countryside. It was known to Henry V, Shakespeare's King Hal, 'with Agincourt for glory and the stake for zeal', who passed through it on the way to Paris. He passed through it again but in the opposite direction, a corpse on the way to burial in England.

The work at Meteor G.H.Q. was very similar to that at any forecasting establishment, even in peace time. There was the difference that a hopelessly wrong forecast, and a military operation based on it, might have disastrous results. As far as I remember there was no forecasts so far out that it led to serious consequences. The chief task of the day was the preparation of the synoptic chart for the fundamental time of 7 a.m. Since the forecast was based on this. This chart, along with the current situations at the various observer stations, was taken to the Colonel as soon as it was prepared. He then made his forecast and the chart, weather particulars from the forward stations and the current forecast were drawn in copying ink on a general weather chart. Copies were then made on a jellygraph modern copying machines were not then invented and these were distributed to the various headquarters at G.H.Q. Early in the forenoon the Colonel visited the Commander in Chief and discussed with him the weather prospects for the day. Reports from local stations arrived throughout the day and at 6 p.m. the data for a new synoptic chart were received and the process repeated except that a general weather chart was not prepared. I appreciated the very great importance of the work at G.H.Q. but somehow I missed the excitement of the nearness to the fighting lines, particularly at the single observer stations like Le Touret.

Early in the new year of 1918 I was commissioned 'in the field' and became a Second Lieutenant, R.E. As far as the work at Meteor was concerned it made very little difference. A great change was the officers' mess which was managed on the lines of a good hotel. The waitresses all belonged to the W.A.A.C. and ours, at the Meteor table, was a very pretty girl named Edith. I never knew her other name. The food was a far cry from bully-beef and dog biscuit stew or, when things were bad, just dog biscuits without the bully-beef or the stew. The disadvantage of being commissioned was, from my point of view, the almost continuous saluting for it now included all non-commissioned ranks as well as the commissioned ranks from major upwards. Also, as it was G.H.Q. the powers that be were very snooty over such things. Occasionally I would visit one of the forward stations, to take a new member of Meteor or sometimes a replacement for a man who was going on leave. As the journey was made by G.H.Q. car I looked forward to such jaunts since it was a good way to see the country. It was amusing to see everybody stiffen up when they noticed the blue and red flash of G.H.Q. and I am sure that there were many unkind thoughts when men of much higher rank than mine realized that they had saluted a mere second lieutenant.

About the middle of February I went to Third Army Headquarters at Albert as a Meteorological Officer, and I felt that I was getting back into the heart of things. I looked at the famous hanging Madonna and wondered about the legend. The Meteor office was in a very pleasant house some distance from the town on the Bapaume road. One day, walking along the road I came across the wayside grave of Colonel Wedgwood of the Fifth North Staffs. As I had met his wife previously I made a sketch of it and sent it to her. As the great German spring offensive against the Third and Fifth Armies started almost immediately after I posted it, it is possible that she never received it.

During the month of March 1918 the weather was established anticyclonic with light easterly winds, a clear sky both day and night and bitterly cold nights. A request was made for a gas attack on a troublesome sector of the Hindenburg defence system in the neighbourhood of the village of Noreuil. On the face of it such a request at a time of such meteorological conditions seemed sheer lunacy, but there were two factors which were favourable. The first was the new method of delivering the gas. The original method of releasing chlorine gas from cylinders was abandoned in favour of delivering the gas straight on the target by firing canisters of the gas from trench mortars. These did not explode but opened gently so that the gas was in the greatest possible concentration.

The second factor was the nature of the terrain. The Germans were masters in the design of defensive systems and all the way from the sea to the Swiss frontier they held the high ground. But in the neighbourhood of Noreuil there was a system of ridges and valleys, almost like the fingers of the hand, running in a roughly west-east direction. Even the Germans could not site their defences along contour lines in such a terrain and consequently they had to dip down into the valleys. This favoured the exploitation of a katabatic wind in the early hours of the morning, the best possible time for the maximum psychological effect of such an attack. Was this possible? It was the task of Meteor Third Army to find out.

The first thing was a request to Meteor G.H.Q. for a forecast covering as many days as possible and, because of the great stability of the anticyclonic system and no sign of its being displaced by a cyclonic system we were assured of stable conditions for, at least, several days. Continuous observations for two whole days and nights were therefore made of the winds in these valleys and it was found that the gradient wind ceased well before midnight and then there was a gradual build up of the katabatic wind reaching about three miles an hour, an ideal velocity for such an attack, at about 3 a.m. The go-ahead for the attack was then given and in the early morning hours tons of pure phosgene gas were delivered from trench mortars. Phosgene gas, besides being a deadly poison, is extremely heavy and therefore, when gently released from the canisters, instead of a violent dispersal, it poured almost like a liquid into the trenches and dug-outs. I do not know whether gas masks offered any protection against this gas provided there was air to breathe, but there was no air to breathe. The phosgene in sinking simply displaced the air so that the gas masks, however efficacious, were useless. The casualties were very heavy.

It was a foul way to kill fellow human beings but the Germans started it. An atrocious weapon is only justified if by its use the war will be almost immediately ended. If it is not, then the other side will develop something even more atrocious, and so the Germans paid heavily for using gas in the first place. Without the co-operation of the meteorological services, both at Army Headquarters and at G.H.Q., this gas attack would not have been possible. It was the last gas attack of the war, but gas shells fired from guns were used right up to the end of the war.

The Germans used phosgene gas in the later stages of the Verdun battles and they believed that, at last, they would achieve a breakthrough and capture Verdun. They were so confident that they actually brought up military bands to head the triumphant march into the town. The gas was delivered in shells by the artillery, not in canisters from trench mortars as in our case, although the effect was at first the same. Because of the element of surprise and of a defect in the fabric of the French gasmasks, which were not impervious to the gas, an advance greater than any since the very beginning of the Verdun battles was made. After that the attack petered out for two reasons, the first being that the French troops were hurriedly equipped with masks which were impervious to the gas. The second was the nature of the terrain. Practically every square foot of land in the battle areas had been ploughed up time and time again by the artillery of both sides. The French had no chance to construct the German type Stollen', in fact it would have been impossible to do so, the best they could achieve being hastily dug trenches. Consequently the gas, although it settled in hollows, dispersed horizontally and was thereby considerably diluted. In the Hindenburg line the deep dug-outs, although an almost perfect protection against artillery, were death traps in the case of an attack with a heavy lethal gas like phosgene because here was no possibility of dilution by dispersion. The atmosphere in the dug-outs became one of phosgene, not air, and so gas masks, no matter how efficient, were useless. I was told that we used, along with the phosgene, canisters of a penetrating gas which made the men remove their masks. It would have made no difference to those in the deep dug-outs but would have been effective in the case of those nearer the surface.

[Dr Cotton then describes the German attack on the British Third and Fifth Armies, which took place in March 1918.]

What happened to the Fifth Army affected the Third Army and therefore affected me. Without doubt the southern half of this Army would have been compelled to fall back, apart from what happened to the Fifth, for with a bombardment of that nature, combined with the erroneous troop dispositions and the inadequacy of the defences, a stand was quite impossible. In addition it was necessary for the right flank to keep pace with the retreating Fifth Army left flank. The whole Army therefore pivoted on its junction with the First Army to the north.

I doubt if anyone in the Third Army Headquarters went to sleep that night. There was a very thick fog before the barrage started at 5 o'clock and immediately after breakfast I set out to bring in the forward observers. The whole of the Meteor equipment and records were then loaded onto a lorry and we, along with the rest of the Headquarters Staff, became the precursors of a general retreat. As we passed the basilica I looked up at the hanging Virgin. She was still in her precarious position but very soon after she was brought down. It looked as though the prophecy was about to be fulfilled but with a German instead of an Allied victory.

As we retreated, French people came to the doors of the houses to watch the British going the wrong way. It was distressing to see the looks of despair on their faces although, as it happened, the German advance was halted at Albert.

The new Third Army Headquarters was at two neighbouring villages, Beauquesne and Terramesnil. They were pleasant, the countryside was pleasant, the sky was blue and the wind warm, and there was a carpet of anemones in the woods. Almost immediately I had to go again to the kite balloon, this time for the duration of the war.

It was very soon realized that the same balloon could not be used in a dual role, for meteorological observations and for artillery spotting, the main reasons being that meteorological ascents had to be made at fundamental hours in order that they could be correlated with ground-level observations, also that they had to be made no matter what the weather was like provided it was not such as to endanger the balloon as, for example, very high winds. So ascents were made under conditions which grounded balloons engaged solely in artillery work, very low cloud cover for example, or almost nil visibility.

So when I arrived the balloon had already been taken out of the line to the village of Strazeele about four miles west of Bailleul. Like practically all the villages in north-east France it was drab; in fact, I had the impression there must be a reason for this universal drabness. Perhaps past history provides the answer. The land on either side of the Franco-Belgian border is not called the cockpit of Europe for nothing.

The balloon personnel were not those I had worked with before; the two officers were Lieutenant West and Lieutenant Donkin, always referred to as Dinkle, although I never knew why. He was a good balloon man but all he could think of was girls, and it was clear that he had already found the village decidedly frustrating. He was only nineteen.

A few days after my arrival I was making the 7a.m. ascent with Dinkle in charge of the balloon. He was in a bad temper, possibly because I had ordered the batman to pour cold water on his head as the only means of wakening him. A particularly loud alarm clock held right against his ear produced no effect whatever apart from a slight shuffling. An alternative method was to tip him out of bed but he would have continued to sleep on the floor if left alone. So he took a poor view of my joke about 'let go the guys'.

On 19 April 1918 the Germans commenced the second of their spring offensives and I thought I must be a kind of Jonah, being followed around by German offensives everywhere I went. On the first day they attacked on a front of 11 miles, extending this to 24 miles the next day. As the Germans had shown at Verdun, kite balloons can move forward during an advance and thus act as the eyes of the artillery but during a retreat they have to be moved to safety as quickly as possible. Early on the 10th we began to evacuate Strazeele. This meant deflating the balloon and packing it up, loading everything onto lorries, including a large number of gas cylinders, not to mention a vast amount of smaller stuff. I had seen to the disposal of my instruments in the light tender and that was all I could do apart from trying not to be in anybody's way. When the cavalcade was about to move off I noticed Lieutenant West approaching me in a great hurry.

'Will you do something for me?' he said.
'Yes, of course, if I can.'
'Wing has just rung through to say that a ferry pilot has ditched a brand-new plane with a secret engine in a field next to the Lunatic Asylum east of Bailleul, right in the way of the German advance. As we are the nearest to it they want it sabotaged. But I can't spare Dinkle as we must be out of here as soon as possible, so will you do it?'
'Good gracious,' I said, 'I haven't the foggiest idea how to sabotage anything, let alone an aeroplane. Besides, my O.C. wouldn't like my taking on a thing like this without his consent. I must ring Meteor.'
'You won't get through.'
We tried and he was right. Eventually I said that I would have a go. Apparently all I had to do was to pour petrol over everything and set it alight. It sounded too simple. The R.F.C. were supplied with P and M motor-bikes and sidecars, the bikes having 500 c.c. single-cylinder engines with the cylinder inclined so as to be parallel to the front member of the frame. I had never driven one but my batman was familiar with ours. So I told him to drive and I sat in the sidecar, and we stowed sufficient petrol in cans to set fire to the whole Air Force. Once again there were the pitiful streams of refugees burdened with as much of their belongings as they could takeaway. It was almost impossible to make any headway, and as I had no idea how fast our own army was retreating the delay caused considerable anxiety. When we reached Bailleul, the town seemed to be empty and it was being shelled, although not very heavily. It was hop-growing country and I noticed several fields almost filled with the tall poles.

We reached the field and there was the plane, and in the next field was the Asylum, a red-brick monstrosity.

That's where we ought to be', my batman said and I was inclined to agree with him. Just before we started pouring petrol over the plane, I had an idea.

'How are we going to set it alight?' I said to the batman.
'Bloody hell,' he said, 'I never thought of that. We shall very likely go up with it.'
I thought of the long hop poles and sent him to bring one. I tied a bundle of rag at the thick end so that it would travel true when thrown as a spear. Then we poured the petrol over what I thought would be the most important parts — there was quite a lake of petrol under the plane and this would help. I then poured petrol over the rag, set fire to it, threw the makeshift torch at the plane and then threw myself face down. There was a terrific whoosh and a hot blast like the inferno. The plane would certainly be a write-off after that although, of course, I had no idea whether the secrets of the engine had been destroyed. When we reached Bailleul on the way back the town was being heavily shelled and as we were crossing the end of the Grand' Place a shell made a direct hit on the clock tower of the mairie and I saw the beautiful blue clock tumbling down.

We had made only 20 or 30 yards further on when the bike stopped. An examination showed that the float was punctured. 'Now what do we do?' moaned my driver. I remembered an article I had read in the journal Motor Cycling. The writer had substituted a large cork for the punctured float. We were fortunate. A little further on there was a chemist's shop. The door was locked, of course a useless precaution since it was certain the Germans would soon capture the town and loot everything. We broke in by smashing one of the windows with our spare petrol tin and, while my batman was looking round for what he could scrounge, I looked for corks which I found in a many-drawered cabinet. I took several, of different sizes, and fortunately one of them was just right. The repair was facilitated by the fact that the carburettor was a top-feed AMAL. If it had been a bottom-feed B and B these were the two makes in most common use in those days the makeshift repair would have been more difficult. Strangely enough I had to make a similar repair to a Blackburn machine I bought soon after demobilization and the cork was still functioning as the float when I sold it.

It was dark when we reached the new camp. I forget the name of the village, which was very small. I found Lieutenant West and gave him an account of all that we had done, and told him that if he didn't recommend me for the V.C. he ought to be shot at dawn. As it was, I thought it best not to court trouble by informing G.H.Q. so I heard nothing more about it.

The balloon was reinflated and the routine of three ascents a day was restarted as though nothing had happened.

The aim of this second German push was to reach the coast and thereby end the war 'at a stroke'. Fortunately they failed once again and their bolt was shot for good. I heard that they had overrun Le Touret, and that is as far as they got in that sector.

Part 6

Meteorological Magazine, March 1980, No. 1292, Vol.109, pp.90-95. © Crown Copyright.

Link to the original Part 6

A few days after the German push had failed and things had settled down again, we made another, and this time final, move. The new site was at Senlecques, a village, very pleasant after those we had been used to, with comfortable brick built houses and a place quite imposing for the size. It was situated on a secondary road, leading west, from the main road through Desvres to Calais. So we were almost as far away from the war as we could be and to all intents and purposes we were doing a civilian job, there being no possibility of alarms of any kind: shelling, bombing, or strafing of the balloon by enemy planes — the great fear of kite balloonists because even if they jumped and the parachute opened, they were likely to be machine-gunned. To the enemy the idea of giving a helpless man a sporting chance was not on. For once Dinkle was delighted since both Calais and Boulogne were an easy run in the light tender and there would be plenty of girls in both places. And so it proved, and needless to say, he was now always short of money. What the reason was for our removal to a place so remote from the war areas I never knew but, needless to say, nobody grumbled.

When we came to Senlecques, such a quiet spot, I thought that there could no possibility of alarms or excitements, but I forgot to take the weather into account. Kite balloons are fair-weather appliances and are not meant to ride out violent storms. After the collapse of the second German offensive there was a period of comparative quiet but, as there was now an almost unlimited supply of guns and ammunition, there was continuous harassment by shell-fire and this, to be effective, necessitated the supply of wind corrections. There was a long spell of stormy weather during which observations of anything above ground level were impossible. The Air Force was grounded and pilot balloons were whisked away as soon as they were released, hardly rising at all. With almost gale-force winds, low scudding clouds and frequent squally showers, the kite balloon was also grounded and so, for a considerable period there were no data of any kind, apart from the surface wind, from which to compute the information required by the artillery. We consequently had nothing to do as the weather was too bad even for walking.

One morning Lieut. West came to me with a face like thunder.

'Wing says that we have to go up now. I told them that it would be suicidal but they said that it was an order from G.H.Q. You'd better ring up G.H.Q. and tell them that it is quite impossible.'

'I can't do that', I said; 'Wing is sure to have told them what conditions are like and, in any case, they have the reports of all the Meteor observers. Quite frankly, with my quite insignificant rank I am not prepared to question the orders of G.H.Q.'

'You mean you are prepared to go up, even in this?'

'I don't see any alternative. After all, millions of men have died already in this war, so why should they bother about two unimportant subalterns? I don't mind telling you I am scared stiff at the idea, but since G.H.Q. have said that we have got to go up, we have got to go up. You are in charge of the balloon but remember, it has been used solely for the purposes of Meteor, and you must admit that we have had a cushy time. So come on, let's go and get it over. Tell Dinkle to say his prayers for once and pray that we don't break loose and land somewhere in Siberia.'

Dinkle expressed his disapproval in the most picturesque language and the balloon crew thought we were crazy, as undoubtedly we were. Once released from its mooring the balloon was almost unmanageable, the men on the handling guys being dragged backwards and forwards and the basket bumping violently on the ground. I was afraid that when they 'let go the guys' — I didn't laugh this time — a man might be too late and find himself carried into the air as had sometimes happened. Fortunately we were spared that calamity.

Once released from the ground the balloon was in the control of the wind and, at first, it wasn't too bad, but when we had risen about 100 feet it demonstrated what it could do. After all it was a kite, so in addition to the rolling, pitching and shuddering that one experiences on a small boat in a rough sea, it responded to sudden changes in wind velocity, plunging violently downwards when there was a lull and ascending equally violently when the velocity suddenly increased. Stanley Holloway could have written a comic monologue about 'this up and down kind of existence', but to us it was far from funny. The amplitude of these plunges increased the higher we rose and I was surprised to realize that I did not even feel seasick. No doubt it was because I was too scared.

With all the cable paid out by the winch, we reached only 1500 feet, the cable being almost horizontal apart from the sag in it. I had been watching and listening to the metal V by which the balloon was attached to the cable. It was on this that I had to take a compass bearing. I did not like its violent to and fro working for it was not unlike the way one bends an iron bar backwards and forwards in an attempt to break it.

'What do we do if that thing breaks?' I asked, trying to sound nonchalant and feeling anything but. 'What the hell can we do?'

'I know one thing,' I said; 'I am not going to risk jumping; what about you? But of course you can't leave the ship as long as I am here.'

It was obvious that jumping in a wind like that would be suicidal, so there was nothing for it but to stay where we were and hope for the best. Actually the worst was still to come. During the descent the up and down plunges were, if anything, worse than before, as the balloon thought up a new trick which it hadn't used during the ascent. After a little while, in addition to doing all its other tricks, it began to yaw from side to side, only a little at first but the amplitude gradually increasing as the distance between balloon and winch decreased. It soon became clear that the yawing, instead of being a simple oscillation in a straight line, was motion along the arc of a circle and that as the length of paid-out cable decreased the angular extent of the oscillation progressively increased. The sum total of all the motions to which the balloon was subject was impossible to deduce. I forgot all about my fear of breaking loose and, instead, wondered what antics the balloon would be up to when we nearly reached the ground. With only about 50 feet of cable paid out the motion due to yawing was almost a complete semicircle and, whatever we felt, we must have looked damned silly from the ground.

With about 30 feet of cable paid out the tips of the handling guys momentarily just touched the ground and then we immediately set off on one of our semicircular orbits in the opposite direction. It was fortunate that the winch was in the middle of the field so that there were no obstacles of any kind. So on our basket was bumping on the ground and the balloon crew, Dinkle among them, running like mad from side to side trying to grasp the handling guys. I was afraid that a man might get hold, be afraid to let loose, and be dashed to the ground on the other side. Fortunately this did not happen and the balloon was finally brought under control. As we thankfully clambered out of the basket, Dinkle ran up and said, 'Come and have a drink'. It was, I think, the most sensible thing he ever said.

I did not think that the data I obtained could have been of much value for, apart from rising only 1500 feet, the kite effect prevented an accurate assessment of the height. Actually with a wind of that nature there is little change of either velocity or direction with height, so perhaps the data would have been of some limited use.

The ascent was, without doubt, a most hazardous undertaking and I agreed with West when he said we deserved a medal. Unfortunately there was no V.I.P. watching us.

When it was over I was glad that I had had the experience, but I would not like to have to do it again. An ascent in such a wind had never been made before and has never been made since. On this occasion, at any rate, my job had been far from cushy.

At 11 a.m. on 11 November, the Armistice was signed. The weather was unsettled over much of France, but at Senlecques it was fine, warm for the time of year, and the sun was shining. A message came from G.H.Q. to the effect that the balloon ascents were to continue, and I was glad, for to stay in such a quiet place, doing nothing, would have been intolerable. The two balloon officers were at first inclined to rebel but they quickly realized that with a body of men waiting to go home and with nothing to do, there would soon have been trouble.

In the middle of the morning I went for a long walk and tried to feel elated, but without success. The war had gone on so long, had become almost a way of life, that it was difficult to realize that it had ended at last. So, whereas for everybody else the war had ended, for us the war, such as it was, continued.

Until the Armistice conditions were fulfilled, the Army continued in a state of combat readiness since, until then, the war was not really ended. Finally, there was a general move forward and, to our regret, we had to move forward as well. Our route was in a general easterly direction, through St Omer, Poperhinghe, Ypres, the dreadful landscape of Passchendaele, now shell-torn and pock-pitted but other­ wise a featureless desert apart from the straight road running through it. The Passchendaele Ridge looked so insignificant geographically that it was difficult to realize that it could be the cause of such dreadful carnage, that this quagmire, at that time waterlogged by almost unending pitiless rain, was the last thing that would be seen by the legions of men, German and Allied, who died there, victims of forces they did not even understand.

At one place, by the roadside, there was a boot with a splintered shin bone, bleached white and clean as though it had been immersed in a zoologist's tank of tadpoles, pointing accusingly to Heaven as though in mute protest at the unspeakable things God had allowed men to do to one another. I wondered to what kind of man had this pitiful thing belonged.

Our destination was a rather drab little village on the road to Roulers but just west of that town. My billet was a little house in a row of little houses and the mess was in a larger house facing the main road. As we were merely marking time, I remember little about the place; a ruined church with smashed organ whose pipes looked like protruding intestines; sheets of music in archaic notation which today would probably be very valuable but were then scattered all over the place; an empty house with, scrawled on the wall,

Ost oder West

Da Heim ist das best

and this, which seemed to indicate a dumb acceptance of something too big for understanding,

Lernen leiden ohne zu klagen

Unlike the British Tommy who also suffered but not with such bovine acceptance. It appeared that the Germans were human after all.

There was a pile of 76 mm shells just outside the mess window, the shell cases of sheet iron because of the shortage of non-ferrous metal owing to our naval blockade. After lunch one day, I was sitting by the fire, reading. It was a cold, wet day and the 1 p.m. balloon ascent had been most unpleasant. I heard a banging going on just outside the window and when I investigated I found to my horror a small boy sitting on the pile of shells, banging away with a hammer trying to remove a nose cap. I chivvied the boy away and hurried to find Lieut. West, as being the O.C. it was his responsibility. He evidently contacted the right people for the shells were gone the next day. It would have been an irony if we had all been blown up after the war had ended, not by the Germans but by a young souvenir hunter.

We heard of the beginnings of discontent among troops who, now that the war was over, thought that they ought be shipped home straight away. There was no trouble with the balloon crew and I am sure it was because we were still making the three ascents a day.

Late in December I was notified that I was to be demobilized and I received the necessary papers enabling me to return first of all to Montreuil, the G.H.Q. personnel having remained there while practically everyone went east. Very early on a bitterly cold and wet morning I was taken by tender to Roulers station and after an interminable wait, during which I became colder and colder, the train crawled in. I had what had been a first-class compartment all to myself and, if it had been possible, I would have joined a compartment full of troops, if only for the warmth. The windows were broken and the upholstery in shreds; in fact it would have been a disgrace to the then Great Eastern third-class commuter carriages, and that is saying something. I left the train very thankfully at some place whose name I have now forgotten and made my way to what, I think, must have been a hotel before the war. After about 14 hours in a perishingly cold train, with nothing to eat, I was almost overwhelmed by the warmth and it was some time before I became sufficiently accustomed to it to face dinner. Eventually I did, and very welcome it was. I am quite sure it was only the outdoor life of the last three years which enabled me to survive that journey without illness.

The train journey to Montreuil was much more comfortable. For one thing I had eaten a very good breakfast, and for another I found a compartment with all the windows intact and several passengers all puffing warmth from cigarettes and pipes. It was a joy to get back to the civilized G.H.Q. mess. Life at Meteor went on exactly as before; the war may have ended but the weather was always with us.

Early in January I said goodbye to everyone at Meteor, regretfully for, being one of the very lucky ones, because of the war I had profited both physically, owing to the open-air life, and intellectually. From an early age I have taken a delight in the processes of nature, those I could understand and those which, as yet, I could not understand. Without a doubt there is a strong streak of pantheism in my philosophical make-up. And so I fitted almost automatically into the organization of Meteor. By day and by night I had watched and recorded the ever-changing pageant of the sky, the magnitudes and kinds of the clouds from the filaments and frills of cirrus to the towering masses of cumulus reaching up into the sky and spreading out horizontally to form the thunderheads, precursors of the storm. Occasionally there would be a solar halo, and at night there was the occasional coloured lunar corona or the thin white circle of the lunar halo caused by reflection— not refraction— from minute ice crystals.

But, in spite of so much beauty, there was an unpleasant dichotomy which I could not always relegate to the back of my mind. The work of Meteor was not carried out to further the science of Meteorology but to make more accurate the processes of mass slaughter. When I was recording upper-air phenomena and computing the artillery wind corrections, I was, in a sense, serving with the artillery. After the war had changed its character from one of movement to one of the stalemate of the trenches, it changed from an infantryman's war to an artilleryman's war. As Hogg and Thurston point out in British Artillery Weapons 1914/18, there were operations in which more gunners were engaged than assaulting infantry. And yet, unless accurately directed, a bombardment could result in an unacceptable waste of ammunition. A vital factor affecting accuracy was the reliability of the wind corrections, and it is no exaggeration to claim that the value of the artillery was, in large measure, dependent on the work of a handful of men, mostly of non-commissioned rank.

Thus I left Meteor with mixed feelings of gladness and of sorrow, and I marched down the hill to the railway station and to my strangest experience of all. I found that the most important function of a subaltern was to escort parties of men to those dreary places called rest camps. So, immediately my train arrived at Boulogne, before it had stopped even, every officer below the rank of captain dashed out and tried to find somewhere to hide; under the carriage, between the buffers, in the far corners of those enormous wagons labelled hommes quarante chevaux six. But it was not the slightest use, for by now the M.P.s knew all the tricks and I am quite sure they would have winkled out a man trying to hide in the smoke-box of the engine. Knowing the futility of these attempts to escape, I took my time and stepped out of the carriage straight into the welcoming arms of an M.P. I was conducted to a party of men at the foot of the hill leading to the rest camp. Fortunately for me they were already formed up in fours, so all I had to do was wait until the lot in front of me moved off, wave my arm, shout 'Come on', and follow up the hill.

Rest camp! That name must have been thought up by the G.H.Q. chief comedian. It was just about the bleakest place I had encountered, at the top of a bare hill and raked by wind from every quarter. What it must have been like during a blizzard, I couldn't imagine, and what the rest camp must have been like for the other ranks I couldn't imagine either. Everyone should have been delighted at the prospect of going home, this time for good, but there was precious little sign of happiness even among the P.B.I, who surely had the most cause for rejoicing.

After breakfast the fun started. A corporal conducted me to my bit of the army, two long rows of men, numbered them off, saluted and marched away. I looked at them and I hadn't the foggiest idea what to do. Everybody else's war was ended but mine was just starting. There was only one thing to do, and that was watch the party which would march off before mine and listen to the commands. The officer in charge had a loud voice and the command was: 'Move to the right in fours; form fours. Left turn. By your right, quick march'. I could easily memorize that for the time required but, unfortunately for me, I missed something very important. So in my best barrack-square voice I gave the command, 'Move to the right in fours'.

But they didn't move to the right, or to the left. They just looked at me and I looked at them. So I tried again but with the same negative result. Something was very wrong and I had no idea what it was. Being swallowed up by the providential opening up of the earth was not provided by an indifferent Nature, so there was only one thing to do. Toujours Vaudace once again. I didn't know what to do but they did. So they should tell me and I would make it look as though it was their fault.

'What the bloody hell's the matter with you', I shouted, 'Don't you want to go home?'

That did the trick; a man in the rear rank called out, 'Please sir, you didn't say form fours'. So that was it, I ought to have given the order, 'Move to the right in fours; form fours'.

By this time I was thoroughly browned off by the ludicrous nature of the situation. If I tried again

I would remember 'form fours' but possibly forget something else. So I shouted, 'O bloody hell, come on'.

I waved my arm, stalked off the battlefield and left my bit of the army to sort themselves out as best they could and follow me down to the docks. There were some brass-hats present but what they thought of the farce I had no idea, and didn't care either.

As though this fiasco wasn't enough there had to be another ludicrous incident on board ship. After seeing all the men on board, I decided that I never wished to see them again, so I found a corner on the boat where I fondly believed that I should remain undiscovered. I had not realized that if someone gives you a bit of the army the men will stick to you like a long-lost brother. Also, I did not know that another of the subalterns' duties was to act as a nursemaid and sort out all the men's troubles.

It was a cold day with strong winds and heavy showers and it was obvious that we were in for a rough crossing. We had been at sea for half an hour or so when one of the men found me. His feet were bare and he carried trench boots, one in each hand. By this time nothing could surprise me, so I waited for his explanation. I expected that he had probably scrounged the boots and then, too late, found them too uncomfortable to wear. His trouble was that somebody had been seasick in one of them, and what could he do. I hadn't the least idea. Meteor had not taught me how to deal with a situation of this kind, and I forget what advice, if any, I proffered. I expect I had very little sympathy as I was still smarting from the comedy of 'form fours'.

So for me the most dreadful war in history ended on a note of farce.

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