Produced by Irma Spehar, Jeannie Howse and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
* * * * *
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
Pushed
AND
The Return Push
* * * * *
Pushed
AND
The Return Push
BY
QUEX
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1919
To the Memory of
_LIEUT.-COL. AUSTIN THORP, C.M.G.,
D.S.O., R.A.,
WHO COMMANDED THE 82ND BRIGADE, R.F.A.,
IN FRANCE, FROM DECEMBER 1915
TO OCTOBER 1918._
_KILLED IN ACTION AT BEAUSIES
ON OCTOBER 30, 1918._
CONTENTS.
PUSHED.
PAGE
I. BEFORE THE ATTACK 3
II. "THE BOCHE IS THROUGH!" 13
III. THE END OF A BATTERY 24
IV. THE NIGHT OF MARCH 21 35
V. A GUNNER'S V.C. 42
VI. BEHIND VILLEQUIER AUMONT 49
VII. STILL IN RETREAT 60
VIII. A LAST FIFTY ROUNDS 65
IX. FASTER AND FASTER 71
X. THE SCRAMBLE AT VARESNES 83
XI. THE G IN GAP 93
XII. OUT OF THE WAY 101
THE RETURN PUSH.
I. THE DEFENCE OF AMIENS 111
II. THE RED-ROOFED HOUSE 119
III. AN AUSTRALIAN "HAND-OVER" 129
IV. HAPPY DAYS! 137
V. BEFORE THE GREAT ATTACK 146
VI. THE BATTLE OF AUGUST 8 153
VII. SHORT LEAVE TO PARIS 163
VIII. TRONES WOOD AGAIN 178
IX. DOWN THE ROAD TO COMBLES 188
X. A MASTERLY TURNING MOVEMENT 203
XI. ON THE HEELS OF THE BOCHE 211
XII. THE MAJOR'S LOST PIPE 221
XIII. NURLU AND LIERAMONT 227
XIV. THE FIGHT FOR RONSSOY 243
XV. "ERNEST" IS LOST 258
XVI. THE DECISIVE DAYS 274
XVII. WITH THE AMERICANS 283
XVIII. A LAST DAY AT THE O.P. 303
XIX. "THE COLONEL----" 326
PUSHED
I. BEFORE THE ATTACK.
By means of a lorry lift from railhead, and a horse borrowed from the
Divisional Ammunition Column, I found Brigade Headquarters in a village
that the Germans had occupied before their retreat in the spring of
1917.
The huge, red-faced, grey-haired adjutant, best of ex-ranker officers,
welcomed me on the farmhouse steps with a hard handshake and a
bellowing "Cheerio!" followed by, "Now that you're back, I can go on
leave."
In the mess the colonel gave me kindly greeting, and told me something
of the Brigade's ups and downs since I had left France in August 1917,
wounded at Zillebeke: how all the old and well-tried battery commanders
became casualties before 1917 was out, but how, under young, keen, and
patiently selected leaders, the batteries were working up towards real
efficiency again. Then old "Swiffy," the veterinary officer, came in,
and the new American doctor, who appeared armed with two copies of the
'Saturday Evening Post.' It was all very pleasant; and the feeling that
men who had got to know you properly in the filthy turmoil and strain
of Flanders were genuinely pleased to see you again, produced a glow of
real happiness. I had, of course, to go out and inspect the adjutant's
new charger--a big rattling chestnut, conceded to him by an A.S.C.
major. A mystery gift, if ever there was one: for he was a handsome
beast, and chargers are getting very rare in France. "They say he
bucks," explained the adjutant. "He'll go for weeks as quiet as a lamb,
and then put it across you when you don't expect it. I'm going to put
him under treatment."
"Where's my groom?" he roared. Following which there was elaborate
preparation of a weighted saddle--not up to the adjutant's 15 stone 5,
but enough to make the horse realise he was carrying something; then an
improvised lunging-rope was fashioned, and for twenty minutes the new
charger had to do a circus trot and canter, with the adjutant as a
critical and hopeful ringmaster. In the end the adjutant mounted and
rode off, shouting that he would be back in half an hour to report on
the mystery horse's preliminary behaviour.
Then the regimental sergeant-major manoeuvred me towards the horse
lines to look at the newly made-up telephone cart team.
"You remember the doctor's fat mare, sir--the wheeler, you used to call
her? Well, she is a wheeler now, and a splendid worker too. We got the
hand-wheeler from B Battery, and they make a perfect pair. And you
remember the little horse who strayed into our lines at
Thiepval--'Punch' we used to call him--as fat as butter, and didn't
like his head touched? Well, he's in the lead; and another bay, a twin
to him, that the adjutant got from the --th Division. Changed 'Rabbits'
for him. You remember 'Rabbits,' sir?--nice-looking horse, but inclined
to stumble. All bays now, and not a better-looking telephone team in
France."
And then an anxious moment. Nearest the wall in the shed which
sheltered the officers' horses stood my own horse--dear old Silvertail,
always a gentleman among horses, but marked in his likes and dislikes.
Would he know me after my six months' absence? The grey ears went back
as I approached, but my voice seemed to awake recognition. Before long
a silver-grey nose was nozzling in the old confiding way from the
fourth button towards the jacket pocket where the biscuits used to be
kept. All was well with the world.
A rataplan on a side-drum feebly played in the street outside!--the
village crier announcing that a calf had committed hari-kari on one of
the flag-poles put up to warn horsemen that they mustn't take short
cuts over sown land. The aged crier, in the brown velveteen and the
stained white corduroys, took a fresh breath and went on to warn the
half-dozen villagers who had come to their doorways that uprooting the
red flags would be in defiance of the express orders of Monsieur le
Maire (who owned many fields in the neighbourhood). The veal resulting
from the accident would be shared out among the villagers that evening.
My camp-bed was put up in a room occupied by the adjutant; and during
and after dinner there was much talk about the programme of intensive
training with which the Brigade was going to occupy itself while out at
rest. For the morrow the colonel had arranged a scheme--defence and
counter-attack--which meant that skeleton batteries would have to be
brought up to upset and demolish the remorseless plans of an imaginary
German host; and there was diligent studying of F.A.T. and the latest
pamphlets on Battery Staff Training, and other points of knowledge
rusted by too much trench warfare.
It was exactly 2 P.M. on the morrow. We were mounted and moving off to
participate in this theoretical battle, when the "chug-chug-chug" of a
motor-cycle caused us to look towards the hill at the end of the
village street: a despatch-rider, wearing the blue-and-white band of
the Signal Service. The envelope he drew from his leather wallet was
marked "urgent."
"It's real war, gentlemen," said the colonel quietly, having read the
contents; "we move at once. Corps say that the enemy are massing for an
attack."
Then he gave quick, very definite orders in the alert confident manner
so well known to all his officers and men.
"Send a cycle orderly to stop Fentiman bringing up his teams! You can
be ready to march by 3 P.M. ... Stone. Townsend, you'd better send off
your groom to warn your battery! Times and order of march will be sent
out by the adjutant within a quarter of an hour! One hundred yards'
distance between every six vehicles on the march! No motor-lorries for
us this time, so all extra kit and things you can't carry will have to
be dumped, and a guard left behind!"
A clatter of horsemen spreading the news followed.
I stood at the door of the village's one cafe and watched two of our
batteries pass. The good woman who kept it asked if I thought the
Germans would come there again. "They took my husband with them a
prisoner when they went a year ago," she said slowly. My trust in our
strength as I had seen it six months before helped me to reassure her;
but to change the subject, I turned to the penny-in-the-slot music
machine inside, the biggest, most gaudily painted musical box I've ever
seen. "Did the Boches ever try this?" I asked. "No, only once," she
replied, brightening. "They had a mess in the next room, and never came
in here."
"Well, I'll have a pen'orth for luck," said I, and avoiding "Norma"
and "Poet and Peasant," moved the pointer towards a chansonette,
something about a good time coming. Such a monstrous wheezing and
gurgling, such a deafening clang of cracked cymbals, such a Puck-like
concatenation of flat notes and sudden thuds that told of broken
strings! And so much of it for a ten-centime piece. When the tumult
began a third time I made off. No wonder the Germans only tried the
instrument once!
By 8 P.M. we found ourselves in a sort of junction village, its two
main roads alive with long lines of moving batteries and lorries and
transport waggons. Inky blackness everywhere, for the Hun bombed the
place nightly, and "No lights" was a standing order. Odd shouts and
curses from drivers in difficulties with their steeds; the continuous
cry of "Keep to the right!" from the military police; from a garden
close by, the howl of an abandoned dog; and from some dilapidated house
Cockney voices harmonising: "It's a Long, Long Trail." There would be
no moon that night, and a moaning wind was rising.
A halt had been called in front of our column, and there was talk of
the batteries watering their horses before completing the further three
miles to their roadside encampments. The Headquarters party had
resigned themselves to a good hour's wait, when I heard the adjutant's
voice calling my name.
"Headquarters will go up to Rouez to-night, and we shall mess with the
General," he shouted at me from out of the darkness. "Traffic isn't
supposed to go this way to the right; but you come with me, and we'll
talk to the A.P., at the Corps Commandant's office. They ought to let
our little lot through."
Headquarters mess cart and G.S. waggon, Maltese cart and telephone
waggon did indeed get through, and by 9.15 P.M. the horses were watered
and fed, the men housed, and we ourselves were at dinner in the cottage
that had become Divisional R.A. Headquarters.
A cheerful dinner with plenty of talk. It wasn't believed now that the
Hun would attack next morning; but, in any case, we were going up to
relieve a R.H.A. unit. The brigade-major was very comforting about the
conveniences of our new positions. Then some one carried the
conversation away and beyond, and, quoting an "Ole Luk-Oie" story,
submitted that the higher realms of generalship should include the
closer study of the personal history and characteristics--mental and
moral--of enemy commanders. Some one else noted that the supposed
speciality of the General immediately opposite us was that of making
fierce attacks across impassable marshes. "Good," put in a third some
one. "Let's puzzle the German staff by persuading him that we have an
Etonian General in this part of the line, a very celebrated 'wet-bob.'"
Which sprightly suggestion made the Brigadier-General smile. But it was
my good fortune to go one better. I had to partner him at bridge, and
brought off a grand slam.
Next morning snow; and the colonel, the adjutant, and myself had a
seven-miles' ride before us. The Germans had not attacked, but the
general move-up of fresh divisions was continuing, and our brigade had
to take over the part of the line we were told off to defend by 5 P.M.
All the talk on the way up was of the beautiful quietude of the area we
were riding through: no weed-choked houses with the windows all blown
in; no sound of guns, no line of filled-up ambulances; few lorries on
the main thoroughfares; only the khaki-clad road-repairers and the "Gas
Alert" notice-boards to remind us we were in a British area. As we
reached the quarry that was to become Brigade Headquarters, we
marvelled still more. A veritable quarry _de luxe_. A mess fashioned
out of stone-blocks hewn from the quarry, perfectly cut and perfectly
laid. Six-inch girders to support the concrete roof, and an underground
passage as a funk-hole from bombs, shells, and gas. Separate
strong-room bedrooms for the officers; and some one had had time to
paint on the doors, "O.C., R.F.A. Brigade," "Adjutant," "Intelligence
Officer, R.F.A.," and "Signal Officer, R.F.A.," with proper
professional skill. Electric light laid on to all these quarters, and
to the Brigade office and the signallers' underground chamber. Aladdin
didn't enjoy a more gorgeous eye-opener on his first tour of his
palace.
"Never seen such headquarters," grinned the adjutant. "Wonder why
there's no place for the Divisional Band."
I shall never forget the content of the next week. The way from Brigade
H.Q., past the batteries and up to the front line, was over a wide
rolling country of ploughed and fallow lands, of the first wild
flowers, of budding hedgerows, of woods in which birds lilted their
spring songs. The atmosphere was fresh and redolent of clean earth; odd
shell-holes you came across were, miracle of miracles, grass-grown--a
sight for eyes tired with the drab stinking desolation of Flanders. A
more than spring warmth quickened growing things. White tendrils of
fluff floated strangely in the air, and spread thousands of soft
clinging threads over telephone-wires, tree-tops, and across miles of
growing fields--the curious output of myriads of spinning-spiders.
There were quaintly restful visits to the front line. The Boche was a
mile away at least; and when you were weary of staring through
binoculars, trying to spot enemy movement, you could sit and lounge,
and hum the rag-time "Wait and See the Ducks go by," with a new and
very thorough meaning. The signal officer was away doing a course, and
I took on his duties: plenty of long walks and a good deal of labelling
to do, but the task was not onerous. "We've only had one wire down
through shell-fire since we've been here," the signalling officer of
the outgoing brigade had told me: and indeed, until March 21, the
telephone-wires to batteries and "O.P.'s" remained as undisturbed as if
they had skirted Devonshire fields and lanes. The colonel was quite
happy, spending two or three hours a day at O.P.'s, watching our guns
register, or do a bit of sniping on the very very rare occasions when a
Hun was spotted.
"I can see how the subalterns shoot on a big open front like this--and
teach them something," he said. "This is an admirable part of the line
for instruction purposes."
Whether the Boche would attack in force on our part of the front was
argued upon and considered from every point of view. There were certain
natural features that made such an attempt exceedingly improbable.
Nevertheless infantry and artillery kept hard at it, strengthening our
means of defence. One day I did a tour with the machine-gun commander
in order to know the exact whereabouts of the machine-gun posts. They
were superlatively well hidden, and the major-general himself had to
laugh when one battalion commander, saying, "There's one just about
here, sir," was startled by a corporal's voice near his very boot-toes
calling out, "Yes, sir, it's here, sir." Gunners had the rare
experience of circling their battery positions with barbed wire, and
siting machine-guns for hand-to-hand protection of the 18 pdrs. and 4.5
hows.; and special instruction in musketry and Lewis-gun manipulation
was given by infantry instructors. There was memorable jubilation one
morning at our Brigade Headquarters, when one of the orderlies, a
Manchester man who fired with his left hand, and held the rifle-butt to
his left shoulder, beat the infantry crack shot who came to instruct
the H.Q. staff.
Camouflaging is now, of course, a studied science, and our colonel, who
issued special guiding notes to his batteries, had a few sharp words to
say one afternoon. The British soldier, old and new, is always happy
when he is demolishing something; and a sergeant sent to prepare a pit
for a forward gun had collected wood and corrugated iron for it by
pulling to pieces a near-by dummy gun, placed specially to draw enemy
fire. "Bad as some Pioneers I noticed yesterday," said the colonel
tersely. "They shifted a couple of trees to a place where there had
been no trees before and thought that that was camouflage."
Happy confident days! The doctor, noting the almost summery heat that
had set in, talked of the mosquito headquarters that would develop in
the pond near our quarry. "I'll oil that pond," he gave forth, and
prepared accordingly. Each mail brought him additional copies of the
'Saturday Evening Post,' which he devoured every moment he was off
duty.
I made the joyful discovery that the thick stone blocks kept the mess
so dry and at such an even temperature that the hundred decent-quality
cigars I had brought from England could be kept in condition as perfect
as if they were at the Stores. The adjutant learnt that his new steed
could indeed buck; but as the afternoon which saw him take a toss
preceded the day on which he left for leave to England, he forgot to be
furious, and went off promising to bring back all sorts of things for
the mess.
Our companion infantry battalion were as gorgeously housed as ourselves
in an adjoining quarry, and at the dinner parties arranged between
their mess and ours reminiscences of Thiepval and Schwaben Redoubt, and
July 1st, 1916, and St Pierre Divion and the Hindenburg Line, brought
out many a new and many an old story.
On the night of March 19th our chief guest was the youthful
lieutenant-colonel who a very few weeks before had succeeded to the
command of the ----. Tall, properly handsome, with his crisp curling
hair and his chin that was firm but not markedly so; eyes that were
reflective rather than compelling; earnest to the point of an absorbed
seriousness--we did right to note him well. He was destined to win
great glory in the vortex of flame and smoke and agony and panic into
which we were to be swept within the next thirty-six hours. My chief
recollection of him that night was of his careful attentiveness to
everything said by our own colonel on the science of present-day
war--the understanding deference paid by a splendid young leader to the
knowledge and grasp and fine character of a very complete gunner.
II. "THE BOCHE IS THROUGH!"
At 5.10 P.M. on March 20 I was in the mess, casting an appraising eye
upon the coloured study of a girl in pink--dark-haired, hazel-eyed,
_tres soignee_, but not too sophisticated, one would say; her beauty of
the kind that glows and tells of abundant vitality and a fresh happy
mind. The little American doctor had sacrificed the cover of one of his
beloved 'Saturday Evening Posts' for this portrait, and with extreme
neatness had scissored it out and fastened it on the wall--a pleasant
change from the cocaine and chocolate-box suggestiveness of the
languorous Kirchner type that in 1916 and 1917 lent a pinchbeck
Montmartre atmosphere to so many English messes in France and Flanders.
The day had been hot and peaceful, the only sound of gun-fire a
six-inch how. registering, and, during a morning tour with the second
lieutenant who had come from one of the batteries to act as temporary
signalling officer, I remembered noting again a weather-beaten civilian
boot and a decayed bowler hat that for weeks had lain neglected and
undisturbed in one of the rough tracks leading to the front
line--typical of the unchanging restfulness of this part of the front.
Suddenly the door opened, to admit Colonel ----, C.O. of the Infantry
Battalion who were our near neighbours in the quarry.
"Have you had the 'PREPARE FOR ATTACK'?" he asked abruptly as we held
ourselves to attention.
"No, sir," I replied, and moved to the telephone to ring up Divisional
Artillery Headquarters.
"Just come in," he said; and even as I asked exchange to put me through
to "D.A.," the brigade clerk came in with the telephoned warning that
we had talked about, expected, or refused to believe in ever since the
alarm order to move into the line a fortnight before.
The formal intimation was sent by wire to the batteries, and I
telephoned to find which battery the colonel was visiting and gave him
the news, which, according to our precise and well-thought-out scheme
of defence, was a preliminary warning not intended to interfere with
any work in hand.
Then the doctor and myself and the Divisional Artillery gas officer,
who had called in while on an inspecting tour, settled down to tea,
jam, and water-cress.
That night our dinner guest was the former captain of our 4.5 how.
battery, now in command of a heavy battery that had come into action
within a quarter of a mile of our H.Q. The "MAN BATTLE POSITIONS," the
order succeeding "PREPARE FOR ATTACK" in the defence programme, was not
expected that night, and we gossiped and talked war and new gunnery
devices much as usual. No story goes so well at mess as the account of
some fatuous muddle brought about by the administrative bewilderments
that are apparently inevitable in the monster armies of to-day. This
was one told with quiet relish by our guest that night:--
"You remember the ---- show?" he said. "A lot of stores were, of
course, lost in the scramble; and, soon after I joined my present
battery, I had to sit on an inquiry into the mysterious loss of six
waggons belonging to a 60-pounder battery. Two courts of inquiry had
already sat on the matter, and failed to trace the whereabouts of the
waggons, which had been reported in all sorts of places. At the third
inquiry a witness stated that the last place the waggons were seen at
before getting lost was such and such a place. A member of the court
asked casually whether any one had since visited the spot; and as it
was near lunch-time some one else suggested that the court adjourn
while an officer motor-cycled over and made inquiries. And I'm hanged,"
concluded the teller of the story, "if the officer didn't come back and
report that the waggons were still there, had been there all the time,
and were in good condition and under a guard. Piles of official
correspondence had been written over the matter, and the investigation
had drifted through all sorts of channels."
Midnight: I had sent out the night-firing orders to our four batteries,
checked watches over the telephone, and put in a twenty minutes'
wrestle with the brain-racking Army Form B. 213. The doctor and
signalling officer had slipped away to bed, and the colonel was writing
his nightly letter home. I smoked a final cigarette and turned in at
12.30 A.M.
3.30 A.M.: The telephone bell above my head was tinkling. It was the
brigade-major's voice that spoke. "Will you put your batteries on some
extra bursts of fire between 3.45 and 4.10--at places where the enemy,
if they are going to attack, are likely to be forming up? Right!--that
gives you a quarter of an hour to arrange with the batteries.
Good-night!"
My marked map with registered targets for the various batteries was by
the bedside, and I was able, without getting up, to carry out the
brigade-major's instructions. One battery was slow in answering, and as
time began to press I complained with some force, when the
captain--his battery commander was away on a course--at last got on the
telephone. Poor Dawson. He was very apologetic. I never spoke to him
again. He was a dead man within nine hours.
I suppose I had been asleep again about twenty minutes when a rolling
boom, the scream of approaching shells, and regular cracking bursts to
right and left woke me up. Now and again one heard the swish and the
"plop" of gas-shells. A hostile bombardment, without a doubt. I looked
at my watch--4.33 A.M.
It was hours afterwards before I realised that this was the opening
bombardment of perhaps the mightiest, most overpowering assault in
military history. Had not the "PREPARE FOR ATTACK" warning come in I
should have been in pyjamas, and might possibly have lain in bed for
two or three minutes, listening quietly and comfortably while
estimating the extent and intensity of the barrage. But this occasion
was different, and I was up and about a couple of minutes after waking.
Opening my door, I encountered the not unpleasant smell of lachrymatory
gas. The Infantry Battalion headquarters' staff were already moving out
of the quarry to their forward station. By 4.40 A.M. our colonel had
talked over the telephone with two of the battery commanders. Their
reports were quite optimistic. "A Battery were wise in shifting from
their old position three days ago," he remarked cheerfully. "The old
position is getting a lot of shelling; there's nothing falling where
they are now. Lots of gas-shelling apparently. It's lucky the batteries
had that daily drill serving the guns with gas-masks on."
The doctor and the acting signal officer came into the mess from their
quarters farther along the quarry. "If this gas-shelling goes on, I
guess we shall all have to have lessons in the deaf-and-dumb talk,"
puffed the doctor, pulling off his gas helmet. "Keep that door closed!"
"D Battery's line gone, sir," rang up the sergeant-signaller.
"M'Quillan and Black have gone out on it."
"Keep Corporal Mann and Sapper Winter on the telephone board to-day," I
advised Bliss, the youngster who had come to headquarters the day
before to do signal officer. "The colonel will be doing a lot of
telephoning, and they know his methods. Be sure to keep all the
Scotsmen off the board. The colonel says Scotsmen ought never to be
allowed to be telephonists. Impossible to understand what they say."
By 5 A.M. one of the two officers who overnight had manned the forward
O.P.'s had spoken to us. He was 2000 yards in front of the most forward
battery, but a still small voice sounded confident and cheery, "A few
shells have dropped to the right of the O.P., but there's no sign of
any infantry attack," was his message. We heard nothing more of him
until six weeks afterwards, when his uncle wrote and told the colonel
he was safe, but a prisoner in Germany.
5.15 A.M.: The cook was handing round early morning tea. D Battery were
through again, and we learned that a sergeant had been killed and one
gunner wounded by a 4.2 that had pitched on the edge of the gun-pit.
Two other batteries were cut off from headquarters; however, we
gathered from the battery connected by the buried cable--that a week
before had kept 500 men busy digging for three days--that, as far as
they could see, all our batteries were shooting merrily and according
to programme.
By 6 A.M. the Brigadier-General, C.R.A., had told the colonel that the
situation to left and right was the same as on our immediate front:
enemy bombardment very heavy and continuing, but no infantry attack.
"We'll shave and have breakfast," the colonel said. "Looks as if the
actual attack must be farther north."
By 8 A.M. the shelling near us had died down. It was going to be a
lovely spring day, but there was a curiously heavy, clinging mist.
"Want to be careful of the gas shell-holes when the sun warms up," said
the doctor.
Fresh ammunition was coming up from the waggon lines, and our guns
continued to fire on arranged targets. The only additional casualty was
that of an officer of A Battery, who had had a piece of his ear chipped
off by a splinter, and had gone to a dressing station. The news from B
Battery aroused much more interest. An 8-inch shell had landed right on
top of their dug-out mess. No one was inside at the time, but three
officers, who were wont to sleep there, had had every article of kit
destroyed. One subaltern who, in spite of the PREPARE FOR ATTACK
notification, had put on pyjamas, was left with exactly what he stood
up in--viz., pyjamas, British warm, and gum-boots.
11 A.M.: The colonel had spoken more than once about the latest
situation to the brigade-major of the Infantry Brigade we were
covering, and to our own brigade-major. The staff captain had rung me
up about the return of dirty underclothing of men visiting the
Divisional Baths; there was a base paymaster's query regarding the
Imprest Account which I had answered; a batch of Corps and Divisional
routine orders had come in, notifying the next visits of the field
cashier, emphasising the need for saving dripping, and demanding
information as to the alleged damage done to the bark of certain trees
by our more frolicsome horses. Another official envelope I opened
showed that Records were worrying whether a particular regimental
sergeant-major was an acting or a temporary sergeant-major.
The doctor and the signalling officer had gone forward to visit the
batteries. Hostile shelling seemed to have died out. The mist was
denser than ever--a weather phenomenon that continued to puzzle.
The telephone bell tinkled again; the colonel turned from the big
map-board on the wall and took up the receiver. "Col. ----
speaking!--Yes!--Have they?--Sorry to hear that!--Umph!--No! no signs
of an attack on our front. Let me know any further
developments--Good-bye!"
He looked towards me and said briefly, "The Boche infantry have got
over on our left! Came through the mist! I'm afraid the --rd (our
companion Field Artillery Brigade) have caught it badly. Two of their
batteries have lost all their guns. Get me the brigade-major of the
---- Brigade"--turning to the telephone again.
He told the brigade-major of the Infantry we were covering the news of
the break on the left. No, our infantry had not yet been attacked; but
up in the front it was difficult to see anything in the mist.
The colonel studied his wall-map with intentness, and put a forefinger
on the --rd Brigade gun positions. "If he's through there we can expect
him in ---- (naming a village of great strategical importance) in a
couple of hours."
A runner came in from C Battery, with whom we had had no communication
for nearly two hours. The Huns seemed to know their position, and had
put over a regular fusilade of 4.2's and 5.9's and gas-shells. The
duck-board running outside the dug-outs behind the guns had had six
direct hits, and two of the dug-outs were blown in, also No. 2 gun had
had its off-wheel smashed by a splinter; two men rather badly wounded.
For an hour there was no further news, and, assisted by my two clerks,
I proceeded peacefully with the ordinary routine work of the adjutant's
department. The doctor came back and said that A Battery were all
right, but could not get communication with their F.O.O., not even by
lamp. The 8-inch shell had made very short work of B Battery's mess.
"Poor old Drake," went on the doctor, "he'd got a new pair of cavalry
twill breeches, cost him L5, 10s., and he'd never even worn them. They
came by parcel yesterday, and the fools at the waggon line sent them up
last night." Bliss, he added, had stayed with B Battery, and was trying
to get the line through between A and B, so that Headquarters could
speak to A.
I strolled over to the other side of the quarry where the colonel's,
the doctor's, and my horses were under cover, and found they had not
been troubled by the gas. The men were at dinner; we were to lunch at
1.15 P.M.
12.40 P.M.: The colonel was again speaking to the Infantry
brigade-major. Still no signs of the German infantry in our front line.
Then in one swift moment the whole situation changed. A sweating,
staggering gunner blundered into the doorway. He made no pretence at
saluting, but called out with all his strength: "The Boche is through."
"Who is that man?" demanded the colonel, whipping round like lightning,
and frowning. "Bring him here! Who do you belong to?"
The man had calmed; but before he could reply there was another
interruption. A strained voice outside shouted, "Is the colonel there?
Is the adjutant there?" Hurrying through the doorway, I saw a tall,
perspiring, hatless young subaltern, cursing because he had got
entangled in the guy-ropes of some camouflage netting posts. It was
Hetherton of C Battery.
The colonel came outside. "The Huns came on us in the mist, sir,"
panted Hetherton, "out of the wood. They've killed Dawson, sir." His
voice broke--"and some of the others. There were only four of us got
away. I came on to tell you." He stopped and breathed hard.
The colonel looked stern, but his voice was smooth and collected.
"That's all right," he said, almost soothingly. "You cut off with your
party and report to the retiring position."
The young man looked dazed, but saluted, and was moving off when the
colonel caught him by the arm. "Come and have a drink, Hetherton,
before going on," he said; "it'll do you good."
"No, thank you, sir," replied Hetherton, and this time he saluted with
body as erect and arm as taut as if on parade. In another second he had
vanished.
There was tense silence as the colonel seized the telephone.
"Put me through to B Battery," he said. Turning towards me, he added:
"Turn out all the men not on telephone duty to take post on the top of
the quarry."
I slipped out and passed the order to the sergeant in charge of the
signallers, roused up the servants, and saw that each man had his
rifle.
"Now, Duncombe," I said to the left-handed orderly who had beaten the
infantry crack shot a few days before, "you may have a chance to see if
your eye is in to-day."
When I got back to the mess, I learned that the infantry had news that
the Boche was coming over the crest towards our battle positions. The
major commanding B Battery had told the colonel that his battery and A
had the enemy in full view, and were firing with open sights. "We are
killing hundreds of 'em, sir," he had reported with delightful
insouciance.
One sharp outburst from the colonel. As he came outside to see if our
twenty-odd men were placed in the best positions for defending the
quarry, he looked across and noted that the officers' chargers were
saddled up, and that the grooms were leading them on to the road above.
"Stop those horses!" he called out angrily. "Who gave orders for them
to leave? Have my horses unsaddled at once. There's always some damn
fellow who does a stupid thing like that and puts the wind up people."
The situation was really saved by the adjutant's new charger, which,
startled by an overcoat the groom had flung over him, began the best
exhibition of bucking he had given since he joined us. As he was in the
lead, and access to the road was by a narrow closed-in track, no one
could get by him.
The grooms in a shamefaced way protested that some one had passed the
"Saddle-up" order, and had a few hectic stinging words addressed to
them. Apparently a mounted orderly, galloping past with a message, had
shouted out something about the enemy being close behind.
The incident being closed, the colonel and myself strapped on belts and
revolvers. The colonel glanced swiftly at the map position of the
battery that the approaching Huns had scuppered, and then said
quickly--
"Whatever happens, we shall have time for something to eat. Tell
Manning to bring in lunch."
III. THE END OF A BATTERY.
We none of us exactly enjoyed that lunch. It was a nice lunch, too: the
steak cut thin, like steak _a la minute_, and not overdone, with crisp
onion sprigs--"bristled onions" the cook always called them; and,
wonder of wonders! a pudding made by cribbing our bread allowance, with
plum jam and a few strips of macaroni to spice it up. But the thought
that the Boche had scuppered C Battery not a thousand yards away, and
was coming on, did _not_ improve the appetite. And news of what was
really happening was so scant and so indefinite! The colonel commented
once on the tenderness of the steak, and then looked thoughtful; the
doctor remained dumb; for myself, I felt keyed up to the state that
seems to clear the mind and to make one doubly alert in execution, but
my hand did perhaps shake a trifle, and I drank two whiskies instead of
my usual one. I thought of one or two things I ought to have done and
had left undone. I remember feeling distinctly annoyed because a
particular hair lotion on its way from England might not be delivered.
I made sure that a certain discoloured Edward and Alexandra Coronation
medal--given me for luck--was secure in my pocket-book, and stuffed my
breast-pockets with all the cigars they would hold.
Lunch was finished in about eight minutes, and the imperturbable
Manning cleared away.
"What about these Defence File papers and the maps on the wall, sir?" I
asked the colonel, my mind harking back to newspaper accounts of German
strategic documents captured by us in some of our advances.
"Tear them up and put them on the fire. We won't destroy this
map"--pointing to a neat and graphic piece of coloured draughtsmanship
showing infantry and artillery dispositions--"until we have to."
I got to work, and the fire crackled joyously. "Don't say we shall have
to leave these to the Hun, doctor!" I said in shocked tones, picking up
four copies of his adored 'Saturday Evening Post.'
The doctor smiled vaguely, but answered nothing.
Hostile shelling had ceased in our neighbourhood. The sound our ears
waited for was the "putt--puttr--putt" of machine-guns, always the
indication of a near infantry attack. I went out and made sure that the
look-outs at both ends of the quarry were doing their work, and found
our little Headquarters army, twenty-five men all told, quiet and
steady, and ready for the moment, should it come.
Half an hour slipped by. We spoke on the telephone to D Battery, who
were on high ground. No, they could see no wave of German infantry
approaching; but Bullivant, B Battery's major, who for the time being
was commanding C Battery's rear uncaptured guns as well as his own rear
and forward 18-pounders, said Huns were coming up _en masse_ from the
south-west. "My guns are firing at them, and A's forward guns are
shootin' as well," he went on. "No! I have seen nothing of our
infantry, but observation is still bad; pockets of mist still about.
About Bliss" (the signalling officer who had gone out in the morning
and not returned). "Oh! he stayed some time at our forward position and
then said he was going to get over to A Battery to see why they were
cut off from communication. A lot of 4.2's were coming over at the
time, and there were snipers about. He had to duck three or four times
on the way and then disappeared from view."
Dumble, captain of A Battery, who had come up from the waggon line,
dropped in and hurried off, saying he was going forward to see if he
could get anywhere near the Battery.
3 P.M.: No further developments. "I'm going over to see General ----,"
announced the colonel, naming the brigadier-general commanding the
Infantry Brigade we were covering.
Five minutes later the adjutant of an infantry battalion on our left
rang through and told me that large numbers of Germans were over the
crest and advancing towards what the map showed me was our A Battery's
forward positions. I put A Battery's rear position guns to fire on them
by the map, and guessed that the Battery's forward guns would be hard
at it already.
The colonel came back from the Infantry Brigade, quiet and
self-possessed as ever. "Defence in depth means forces more scattered,
and greater difficulty in keeping up communication," he remarked,
taking a chair and lighting a cigarette. "As far as can be gathered,
the situation is this: The Boche got through in force on our left and
the --th Division gave way. That bared our own Division's left flank,
and is the reason why the --rd Brigade had such a bad time and lost so
many guns. The enemy is still coming on; and he's doing too well, also
against the --th Division on our right. Our own people say he has
worked past their outposts, but that so far as is known they are
holding out. The main battle positions are still safe, and a
counter-attack is being arranged. No news at all of what is happening
farther north!" This was the longest speech the colonel made on that
21st of March.
4 P.M.: I telephoned to the regimental sergeant-major and told him to
come up with the mess cart and the G.S. waggon for remaining kit, and
ordered the servants to pack up. Twenty minutes later Dumble returned,
dusty and dispirited.
"Well, Dumble, what news?" inquired the colonel quickly.
"I couldn't get to the Battery, sir--the enemy are round it, between it
and our infantry," began Dumble in cut-up tones.
"The nearest I got was in a trench held by the 7th Westshires. An
officer told me that an advanced party of the enemy came over the crest
about 12.30. They fired Very lights in response to a Hun contact plane
that flew towards the switch-trench leading N.E. towards the battery.
By 2 o'clock more enemy infantry were coming from the south, apparently
to join up with the advanced party who had sat tight. Both A and B
Batteries fired on this new body, and they seemed to me dispersed. But
by half-past three, while I was there, Germans in small parties were
crawling through the wire in front of A Battery, and getting into our
trenches."
He paused and wiped his streaming face with his handkerchief.
"What were our infantry doing?" the colonel interrogated.
"There were only small parties of them, sir, and very scattered," went
on Dumble. "The officer and myself, with a dozen men, got along a
trench to within thirty yards of some Huns and fired on them. But
another party, from almost behind us, came along and bombed us back. We
had two killed and brought one wounded man back with us. Another lot
came up on our left and we had to move farther back."
"Was the battery still firing when you came away?" demanded the
colonel.
"Yes, sir, firing well, but mostly on fresh parties of Boche eight
hundred yards away."
A knock at the door, and the entrance of a quick-eyed dapper bombardier
from the very battery talked of prevented Dumble continuing.
"From Major Harville, sir," he said, saluting.
Just a slip from an Army Book 136, in Harville's neat cramped
handwriting. And the message itself was formal enough: a plain bald
statement of a situation that contained heroism, drama, a fight against
odds--despair, probably, were the truth known; but despair crowned with
the halo of glory and self-sacrifice. The message ran--
"I have fired 2200 rounds, and have only 200 rounds left. My
S.A.A. for Lewis guns and rifles is also running short. Can more
ammunition be sent up immediately, please?
"The enemy has got through the wire in front of the battery, and
is now on two sides of us. If the infantry can assist we can
hold out until dark, when I will retire to rear position."
The note was timed 3.40 P.M. It was now 4.30 P.M. The colonel was never
more collected or more rapid in acting than at this moment. In two
minutes he had spoken to the Infantry brigadier, and asked whether
immediate assistance could not be sent. Then he wrote this note to
Major Harville--
"Your message timed 3.40 P.M. received at 4.30 P.M.
"Hold on: you are doing splendidly, and counter-attacks are
being organised.
"Teams with limbers to withdraw your guns to rear position by 8
P.M. are being sent for."
"I hope the counter-attack is in time," he said to me with a certain
sad thoughtfulness before handing the note to the bombardier. "Do you
think you can get back to the battery, bombardier?" he added. "I'm
afraid you'll find more Boche there now."
"I'll try, sir," replied the bombardier stoutly.
"Off you go then, but be careful!"
In the period of waiting that followed we seemed to have forgotten that
three hours ago we were expecting every minute to have to turn out and
face the Boche with rifle and revolver. Save for the colonel and two or
three of the signallers and a couple of servants, none of us were
experienced soldiers; all our previous experience had been in attack; it
was something new this feeling that a powerful, energetic, determined
foe was beating down our opposition and getting nearer and nearer. Yet,
whatever they may have felt, not one of our little band showed signs of
depression or nervous excitement. The signalling-sergeant was cursing
the sanitary orderly for not having cleared up a particular litter of
tins and empty cigarette packets; the officers' cook was peeling
potatoes for dinner, and I heard the old wheeler singing softly to
himself some stupid, old-time, music-hall ditty.
In the mess no one spoke a word, but each of us knew that our one
thought was whether A battery would be able to hold out.
5.30 P.M.: The answer, a grim and saddening one. A sergeant came
hurrying in.
"They've captured the battery, sir," he said bluntly, "and Major
Harville is killed. I came to report, sir. I was the only one to get
away."
I think sometimes of famous cases of tragedy and passion I have heard
unfolded at the Old Bailey and the Law Courts, and the intense, almost
theatrical atmosphere surrounding them, and compare it to the simple
setting of this story, told in matter-of-fact tones by a sergeant
standing to attention. "We finished all our ammunition, sir," he began,
addressing the colonel, "and took our rifles. Major Harville was shot
by a machine-gun while he was detailing us to defend the two gun-pits
farthest from the place where the enemy had got past our wire. He fell
into my gun-pit, sir, shot in the head. Mr Dawes, who took command,
said we would keep on with rifles, and Bombardier Clidstone was doing
fine work with his Lewis gun. The Huns didn't seem inclined to come
close, and after a conference in my gun-pit with Mr Bliss, Mr Dawes
asked for a volunteer to try and find the nearest infantry, and to tell
them we'd hold on if they could engage the enemy and prevent him
rushing us. I said I would try, and crawled on my belly, sir, through
the grass to an empty trench. The battery fired several fine volleys; I
heard them for a long time. It was slow work crawling away without
being seen, and when I had got 600 yards and was trying to get my
bearing--I don't know what time it was.
"Then I noticed that no firing came from the battery. There was no
sound at all for over ten minutes. Then about a hundred Germans rushed
forward and started bombing the gun-pits, and some of our men came up.
I saw about a dozen of them marched off as prisoners."
"You are quite sure Major Harville was killed?" asked the colonel
quietly.
"Yes, sir; he fell right in my gun-pit."
We all stood silent, looking on the ground. Poor Harville! The phrase
that kept running in my mind was, "One of the best," but with a
different meaning to that in which generally it is used. A gallant
upright soul. The very best type of the civilian soldier who fought
this war for England. Before the war a professional man who had given
no thought to fighting: when he became a soldier it was because he
understood thoroughly, and believed in completely, all that for which
he was ready to give his life.
A clean-living, truly religious man too, who loathed loose talk and
swearing, and lived up to his ideals even amid the slime and filth of
war. And his bravery was that of the honest man who fears and yet faces
danger, not the bull-headed heroism of the "man who knows no fear."
Poor Harville!
The sergeant spoke again.
"Before I came back here, sir, after the enemy had marched off our men,
B Battery turned their guns on the Germans in A Battery's position."
"Did they?" said the colonel, his face lighting up. "Splendid!"
"Yes, sir; they fired well, a hundred rounds, I should think. They
scattered all the Germans, sir: they ran like mad."
We had given up hope of ever hearing again of the two sniping guns
sited just behind the original front line, C's 18-pdr. and D's 4.5 how.
They were at least 2000 yards in front of the ill-fated A Battery, and
must have been captured. What was our surprise then to note the
arrival, at a slow easy walk, of the sergeant of D Battery who had been
in charge of the 4.5 howitzer. He reported that the detachments had
come away safely at 5.45 P.M., and before doing so had "spiked" both
guns, and so left their enemy useless booty. It was such an orderly
account of action, taken strictly according to drill-book procedure,
that I have pieced it together in this form:--
2.30 A.M. A few shells falling.
4.30 A.M. Intense hostile bombardment begun. Officer at O.P.
ordered detachments to man guns.
4.32 A.M. Fired on two targets on orders from O.P.
Noon. Communication with O.P. broke down.
12.30 P.M. Attempt to mend O.P. wire failed, as it was too badly
cut by shell fire.
1 P.M. The sergeant of D Battery went away to try and discover the
situation and to obtain orders.