Protection Training For Dogs Utah

Protection Training For Dogs Utah

Indicate the magic of them licence patrol bomb squad endorsed warfare for one last time. It was impossible not to be moved as surveyed the landscape from his wheelchair, his eyes misting over at the painful memories of 1917. Even though the land that was once part of the British front line is now the corner of a farmer's field with the rebuilt Langemarck church the background, recognised it immediately. Yes, this is where it happened, he said. I can it mind's eye. I remember the cacophony of noise, loud you couldn't hear the next to you speaking. Scroll down for more Shells were whizzing over us towards the lines just 750 yards away, and their machine-gun bullets were coming the opposite direction. But what I remember most was the waiting, the anxiety, the fear. I have a memory of crossing that stream. It was flooded, with the trees on either side smashed to pieces. We crossed on pontoons because the bridge had been blown up. On the far side of the stream we stopped to await the order to advance. The bombardment to cover us took your breath away. The noise was ferocious. There was apprehension everyone's eyes and horror a few. Endless torrential rain and Allied barrage of more than four million shells that preceded the initial assault on July 31, turned the battlefield into a quagmire that would bog down the offensive. Before Allied forces finally captured the town November 1917, soldiers were sucked under and drowned, and guns, tanks and horses also sank the mud. On the morning of 16, 's battalion of the 7th Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry was given the task of launching assault on the village of Langemarck. The ground we had to cover was just shell holes, recalled. There were bodies, both our own and from the first wave. It was sickening to your own dead and wounded, some crying for stretcher-bearers, others semi-conscious and others beyond all There were men who had been ripped to pieces it wasn't just a case of seeing them with a neat bullet-hole their tunic. Lots of people were crying for help but you couldn't stop. It was hellish, he adds his slight Somerset burr. Just one nightmare from the thunder of the guns as the battle began to the sound of the wounded crying out. You could do nothing to help them. You just had to go forward through all that mud and blood. It was absolutely sickening. I remember one lad from our regiment particular the memory has haunted me all life. He was a pool of blood, ripped open from his shoulder to his waist by shrapnel. When we got to him he said, 'Shoot me.' But before we could draw a revolver, he was dead. And the final word he uttered was 'Mother'. It wasn't a cry of despair, it was a cry of surprise and I think no, I'm sure that his mother was the next world to welcome him and he knew it. I've always remembered that cry and that death is not the end at least I that's how it was with three mates. who had been apprentice plumber Bath before conscription, was sent to the front line around his 19th birthday 1917. He said: I didn't want to be there and I never pretended I did. I was conscripted 1916, by which time the enthusiasm for the war had waned at home. I was nervous but I didn't want to reveal feelings to the others. It doesn't matter how much training you've had, you can't prepare for the reality the noise, the filth, the uncertainty, the casualties. The conditions were awful while we were waiting for the offensive. It rained and rained. Water flowed along the bottom of the trench. I'd stand on ammunition box until it sank into the mud, then put another on top and stand on that. There