It was now time to commence training with the Artist’s Rifles and after only the briefest
he was off to France to an area near Ypres. Here he was to spend the next appalling six months, in the cold mud, rat invested trenches with only occasional brief respites for recuperation back from the very front line. Fortunately he did not suffer like many others from a gas attack, but there was constant shelling, and machine gun fire. He was absolutely petrified to his core, and like so many others who were mere cannon fodder, was just waiting his turn to die or be so maimed that one was sent home, but yet hopefully not too severe to be impaired and be a physical wreck everafter. One day a shell burst particularly close and the shock affected his ears badly, and for the rest of his life, he was particularly sensitive to decompression. whether by going to high elevations as was common in Ceylon, or on aircraft, when he would suffer from a ringing in his ears.

On another occasion he would relate was when he was on sentry duty with strict instructions not to let anyone through the barrier who did not know the current password or who had a written authorisation. A large car drew up and he stepped forward and asked the officer for his permit or password, which he declined to produce.
“ In that case I am very sorry” he replied to the rather smart officer, “ I have instructions to deny you access”. “Oh don’t be such a bore fellow.....just go to your Sentry Office and I am sure they will let me through”
He marched to the office, and informed the officer in charge of the position, who then walked out to the car saluted smartly and he then turned to father and said:
“You Bloody fool Charnaud, this is the Prince of Wales!”

One day after six months in France, amongst the squalor and mud however, a loud voice rang down the trench that he was in:

‘Anyone here speak foreign languages ?’
“Yes I do” He replied.
“What are you fluent in?”
“French, Greek, a fair bit of Turkish and a smattering of Italian”.
“You’ll do. Report to base and you will be off to Blighty.”
With that one brief conversation, he was through the good fortune of his childhood cosmopolitan upbringing, released from the fear squalour, mud and misery of the trenches, and almost certain death, to undergo a three month officers training course at Cambridge University at Girton College which had been commandeered for military training. He spent many happy hours making maps around Granchester, and soon after that was commissioned as an Intelligence Officer, (acting Lieutenant) and assigned a post with the Derbyshire Yeomanry and sent out to Salonika, on the Balkans front. This was the most remarkable break in his fortunes , and for the remainder of the war and for a year afterwards, he had a most interesting and educative time, with a whole host of amazing experiences.

One of his first assignments in Salonika was to discover how there was a leak of information through the lines to the Germans who were allied to the Bulgarians. There were a number of coincidences that shipping was being lost to enemy submarines which happened to suddenly appear just at the right time as the vessels were leaving port. After making many inquiries suspicion eventually fell on a Moslem Hodja , (who calls the faithful to prayer from the minaret). He was thoroughly interogated, but continually protested his innocence and there was just not enough firm proof to establish his guilt.
Eventually Father was exasperated and took the man for a final meeting up into the mountains. They walked slowly for some hours climbing steadily upward through the rocky slopes until eventually they reached a small coll, when they stopped to rest. It was miles away from the town and completely isolated and silent save for the wind and the distant tinkling of sheeps’ bells.
“I have brought you up here where it is quiet and silent”, he said. “ There is no-one else here, not a soul; only you, me and God”. With those words, he simultaneously drew his revolver and from point blank aimed it at the man’s head.
“You will tell me how the information gets through, and if you co-operate I will see that your life is spared, as I will have you classed as an informer and collaborator. If not I will shoot you dead here and now, as I am not going back down the mountain without the information and you alive!” He released the safety catch and was counting to 5 when suddenly the Hodja broke down, and pleaded to be spared.
“Come I will show you how the messages are passsed.”
They walked on further with the Hodja leading the way until a while later they arrived at a rocky outcrop and on the side he rolled a stone away to reveal the postbox with a letter inside from the Bulgarians. He was as good as his word, and saw the man’s life was saved and the British were for a while able to use this knowledge to their advantage.
Whilst working well away from the front he was able at odd moments when there was time in the winter to go shooting for partridge and woodcock in the fields and hills. He had a pointer dog for retrieving and setting up the birds which was a pleasant and loving companion to accompany him. Often he would be billetted in small Greek villages amongst the peasants and by being absolutely fluent in Greek, was able to derive a lot of useful information and help build up networks of informers. He was always fascinated by their industriousness, and the hard life they led, growing vegetables and corn, and from the meagre resources, what good tasty meals they could produce. They were always toiling, in spring setting out their crops, in summer harvesting, in the wet autumn gathering mushrooms off the hills and fields which they would dry in the air on threaded strings. It was interesting also to him ,that on their simple diet of vegetables, and minimum meat ,how healthy they were and to what a great age they would reach.
One day he had to go back to base and was given £100 in gold sovereigns (About £10,000 today) to pay informers and people who were useful to the allied cause. To get back towards his location he managed to hitch a lift with some soldiers in a truck to a small station where he could pick up a train which would take him on his way. They arrived at the halt, parked their vehicle and proceeded to have a coffee at a nearby cafe whilst they were waiting. Some of the men got out a pack of cards and started playing as they they relaxed in the warm spring sunshine. They were mostly not joining the train but were en route to another destination. Eventually the slow chugging train appeared and they bid farewells with the dog following on board. The train drew out and some five or ten miles later Father found to his horror that with all the banter and chatter, he had departed without his haversack which had been left hanging in the back of the truck with all the gold sovereigns.

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Act / Captain Fred Charnaud.