would attack; of the artillery duels and the minor raids by which each
side sought to feel and test the other's strength. I recall two or
three further incidents of our stay in that part of the line. The
G.O.C., R.A., of Corps decided that a rare opportunity presented itself
for training junior officers in quick picking up of targets, shooting
over open sights, and voice-command of batteries from near
sighting-places where telephone wires could be dispensed with and
orders shouted through a megaphone. "It will quite likely come to
that," he observed. "The next fighting will be of the real open warfare
type, and the value of almost mechanical acquaintance with drill is
that the officer possessing such knowledge can use all his spare brains
to deal with the changing phases of the actual battle." So a single
18-pdr. used to be pulled out for practice purposes, and Generals and
infantry officers came to see gunner subalterns schooled and tested. It
was better practice than Shoeburyness or Larkhill, because though the
shoots were carried out on the gunnery school model the shells were
directed at real targets. During one series a distinguished red-tabbed
party was dispersed because the Hun did an area strafe in front,
behind, and around the single gun. Another time the descent of an
8-inch saved the _amour-propre_ of a worried second lieutenant, who,
after jockeying with his angle of sight, had got into abject
difficulties with his range and corrector.
One morning I was up forward carrying out instructions to keep in daily
touch with the infantry battalions, finding out their requirements, and
discovering what new artillery targets they could suggest. As it was
also my business to know what the Heavies were doing, I stopped at an
O.P. in a trench to ask a very young R.G.A. officer observing for a
6-inch how. such questions as what he had fired upon that morning, and
whether he had noted any fresh Boche movement. I had passed along the
winding trench and descended the dug-out headquarters of one of our
infantry battalions, and was inquiring if the commanding officer had
any suggestions or complaints to make, when the boyish R.G.A. officer
came down the steps and, not noticing me in the dim candle-light, asked
in hurried tones: "Excuse me, sir, but could you identify an artillery
officer who said he was coming here? He stopped and asked me some
extraordinary questions ... and"--hesitatingly--"you have to be careful
talking to people in the front line."
The adjutant and the intelligence officer of the infantry battalion
were smiling broadly. Finally the colonel had to laugh. "Yes," he said,
"I can identify the artillery officer. Here he is. You haven't
discovered a spy this time."
The young officer looked abashed, and when later I passed his "O.P.,"
apologised with much sincerity. I replied by asking him to have a good
look at me, so that he wouldn't mistake me next time we met. After
which we both laughed. We did meet again, not long afterwards, and in
much more exciting circumstances.
When the Brigade left that part of the line, Marshal Foch had begun his
momentous counter-effort between Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. In a
very short time we also were to be engaged in a swift and eventful
movement that changed the whole tenor of the war: a time of hard
ceaseless fighting, countless episodes of heroism and sacrifice, and
vivid conquering achievement.
V. BEFORE THE GREAT ATTACK
On the evening of August 3, an evening with a sinister lowering sky, we
settled in our newest headquarters: wooden huts, perched on the long
steep slope of a quarry just outside the crumbling ruins of Heilly,
celebrated in the war annals of 1916 for an officers' tea-rooms, where
three pretty daughters of the house acted as waitresses.
Excitement was in the air. Marshal Foch's bold strategy at Soissons had
had dramatic effect. The initiative was passing again to the Allies. A
faint rumour had developed into an official fact. There was to be a big
attack on our immediate front. Yet few of us dared to conceive the mark
in history that August 8 was to make. All we really hoped for was a
series of stout resolute operations that would bring Germany's great
offensive to a deadlock.
Along the road that wound past the quarry--offshoot of a main route
that will for ever be associated with the War--there flowed a ceaseless
stream of ammunition waggons. "This goes on for three nights.... My
Gad, they're getting something ready for him," remarked our new
adjutant to me. Gallant, red-faced, roaring old Castle had been
transferred to command the Small Arms Ammunition section of the D.A.C.,
where his love of horses was given full play, and had already gained
his section many prizes at our Horse Show a week before.
Rain descended in stinging torrents, and the Australian colonel and his
adjutant, who would leave as soon as they heard that our batteries had
relieved theirs, looked out disgustedly. I called for a bottle of
whisky, and when the Australian adjutant toasted me with "Here's to the
skin of your nose," I gathered that his gloom was lessening. The soup
came in and we started dinner.
Talk ran upon the extraordinary precautions taken to surprise the
enemy. Field-guns were not to be moved up to their battle positions
until the night before the attack. There was to be no digging in of
guns, no earth was to be upturned. Reconnaissance likely to come under
enemy observation had to be carried out with a minimum of movement. As
few officers and men as was possible were to be made aware of the date
and the scope of the operation. On a still night the creaking rattle of
ammunition waggons on the move may be heard a very long way off. To
prevent this noise of movement wheel tyres were lapped with rope; the
play of the wheels was muffled by the use of leather washers. Straw had
even to be laid on some of the roads--as straw is laid in front of
houses where the seriously sick are lying.
"I think," said the Australian signalling officer, "that the funniest
thing is the suggestion in orders that telephone conversations should
be camouflaged. I suppose that if some indiscreet individual asks over
the 'phone whether, for instance, a new telephone line has been laid to
a certain map point it is advisable to reply, 'No, he's dining out
to-night.'"
"Why not try a whistling code?" put in our adjutant. "Suppose you
whistled the first line of 'Where my Caravan has rested,' that could
mean 'At the waggon line.'"
"And 'Tell me the old, old Story' would be 'Send in your ammunition
returns at once,'" laughed Wilde, our signalling officer, who had been
angered many times because his line to Divisional Artillery had been
held up for that purpose.
"And 'It's a long way to Tipperary' could be taken as 'Lengthen your
Range,'" said one of the Australian officers in his soft drawl; while
the exuberance reached its climax when some one suggested that "Waiting
for the Robert E. Lee" might be whistled to indicate that the
Divisional Commander was expected at any moment.
"You've had some of the Americans with you, haven't you?" asked our
colonel of the Australian colonel. "How do you find them? We heard a
humorous report that some of the Australian infantry were rather
startled by their bloodthirstiness and the vigour of their language."
The Australian colonel--one of those big, ugly, good-tempered men who
attract friendship--laughed and replied, "I did hear one good story. A
slightly wounded Boche was being carried on a stretcher to the dressing
station by an American and one of our men. The Boche spoke a bit of
English, and was talkative. 'English no good,' he said. 'French no
good, Americans no good.' The stretcher-bearers walked on without
answering. The Boche began again. 'The English think they're going to
win the war,--they're wrong. You Americans think you've come to
win,--you're wrong.'
"Then the American spoke for the first and last time. 'You think you're
going to be carried to hospital,--you're wrong. Put him down, Digger!'
And that ended that.
"Speaking seriously, though," he went on, "the Americans who have been
attached to us are good stuff--keen to learn, and the right age and
stamp. When they pick up more old-soldier cunning, they'll be mighty
good."
"From all we hear, you fellows will teach them that," answered our
colonel. "I'm told that your infantry do practically what they like
with the Boche on their sector over the river. What was that story a
Corps officer told me the other day? Oh, I know! They say your infantry
send out patrols each day to find out how the Boche is getting on with
his new trenches. When he has dug well down and is making himself
comfortable, one of the patrol party reports, 'I think it's deep enough
now, sir'; and there is a raid, and the Australians make themselves at
home in the trench the Boche has sweated to make."
The Australian colonel nodded with pleasure. "Yes, our lot are pretty
good at the cuckoo game," he agreed.
Next morning our shaving operations were enlivened by the swift rush of
three high-velocity shells that seemed to singe the roof of the hut I
was in. They scattered mud, and made holes in the road below. "The
nasty fellow!" ejaculated our new American doctor, hastening outside,
with the active curiosity of the new arrival who has been little under
shell fire, to see where the shells had burst. Our little Philadelphia
medico had gone, a week before, to join the American forces. His
successor was broad-built, choleric, but kind of heart, and came from
Ohio. I suspected the new doctor of a sense of humour, as well as of an
understanding of current smart-set satire. "They kept me at your base
two months," he told me, "but I wanted to see the war. I also heard an
English doctor say he would be glad of a move, as the base was full of
P.U.O. and O.B.E.'s."
After breakfast the colonel and myself passed through the battered
relics of Heilly on our way to the batteries. The rain and the
tremendous traffic of the previous night had churned the streets into
slush, but the feeling that we were on the eve of great events made me
look more towards things of cheer. The sign-board, "--th Division Rest
House," on a tumble-down dwelling ringed round with shell-holes, seemed
over-optimistic, but the intention was good. At the little railway
station a couple of straw-stuffed dummies, side by side on a platform
seat as if waiting for a train, showed that a waggish spirit was
abroad. One figure was made up with a black swallow-tailed coat, blue
trousers, and a bowler hat set at a jaunty angle; the other with a
woman's summer skirt and blouse and an open parasol. B Battery, who had
discovered excellent dug-outs in the railway cutting, reported that
their only trouble was the flies, which were illimitable. A and C had
their own particular note of satisfaction. They were sharing a row of
dug-outs equipped with German wire beds, tables, mirrors, and other
home comforts. "We adopted the Solomon method of division," explained
Major Bullivant. "I picked out two lots of quarters, and then gave C
first choice."
"We've got to select positions still farther forward for the batteries
to move to if the attack proves a success," said the colonel next day;
and on that morning's outing we walked a long way up to the infantry
outposts. We struck a hard main road that led due east across a wide
unwooded stretch of country. A drizzling rain had set in; a few big
shells grunted and wheezed high over our heads; at intervals we passed
litters of dead horses, rotting and stinking, and blown up like
balloons. At a cross-road we came to a quarry where a number of
sappers were working. The captain in charge smiled when the colonel
asked what was the task in hand. "General ---- hopes it will become his
headquarters three hours after zero hour, sir."
"That ammunition's well hidden," remarked the colonel as we followed a
lane to the right, and noted some neat heaps of 18-pdr. shells tucked
under a hedge. We found other small dumps of ammunition hidden among
the corn, and stowed in roadside recesses. Studying his map, the
colonel led the way across some disused trenches, past a lonely
burial-place horribly torn and bespattered by shell fire, and up a wide
desolate rise. "This will do very well," said the colonel, marking his
map. He looked up at the grey sky and the heavy drifting clouds, and
added, "We'll be getting back."
We came back along the main road, meeting occasional small parties of
infantry, and turned to the right down a road that led to the nearest
village. A Boche 5.9 was firing. The shells fell at minute intervals
four hundred yards beyond the road on which we were walking. The
colonel was describing to me some of the enjoyments of peace soldiering
in India, when there came a violent rushing of air, and a vicious
crack, and a shower of earth descended upon us; and dust hung in the
air like a giant shroud. A shell had fallen on the road forty yards in
front of us.
We had both ducked; the colonel looked up and asked, "Well, do we
continue?"
"We might get off the road and go round in a semi-circle, sir," I
hazarded. "I think it would be safer moving towards the gun than away
from it."
"No, I think that was a round badly 'layed,'" said the colonel. "We'll
keep on the road. Besides, we shall have time to get past before the
next one comes. But I give you warning," he added with a twinkle, "the
next one that comes so near I lie down flat."
"I shall do exactly as you do, sir," I responded in the same spirit.
The colonel was right as usual. The next round went well over the road
again, and we walked along comfortably. At the entrance to the village
lay two horses, freshly killed. The harness had not been removed. The
colonel called to two R.A.M.C. men standing near. "Remove those saddles
and the harness," he said, "and place them where they can be salvaged.
It will mean cutting the girths when the horses commence to swell."
At 4.30 next morning the batteries were roused to answer an S.O.S.
call. The rumble of guns along the whole of our Divisional front lasted
for two hours. By lunch-time we learned that strong Hun forces had got
into our trenches and penetrated as far as the quarry where the colonel
and myself had seen the sappers at work. Twenty sappers and their
officer had been caught below ground, in what had been destined to
become General ----'s headquarters. Our counter-attack had won back
only part of the lost ground.
"I'm afraid they'll spot all that ammunition. They are almost certain
now to know that something's afoot," said the colonel thoughtfully.
"Something like this always does happen when we arrange anything,"
broke in the adjutant gloomily.
There were blank faces that day. We waited to hear whether there would
be a change of plan. But after dark the ammunition waggons again poured
ceaselessly along the roads that led to the front.
VI. THE BATTLE OF AUGUST 8
On the afternoon of August 7 the colonel left us to assume command of
the Divisional Artillery, the C.R.A. having fallen ill and the senior
colonel being on leave. Major Veasey, a Territorial officer, who was
senior to our two regular battery commanders, a sound soldier and a
well-liked man, had come over from D Battery to command the Brigade. A
determined counter-attack, carried out by one of our Divisional
infantry brigades, had won back most of the ground lost to the Boche
the day before. Operation orders for the big attack on the morning of
the 8th had been circulated to the batteries, and between 9 P.M. and 10
P.M. the guns were to move up to the battle positions. The old wheeler
was looking ruefully at the ninety-two steps leading from the quarry up
to our mess. Made of wooden pegs and sides of ammunition boxes, the
steps had taken him three days to complete. "My gosh! that does seem a
waste of labour," commented the American doctor, with a slow smile.
"Doctor, those steps will be a godsend to the next people who come to
live here," I explained. "That's one of the ways in which life is made
possible out here."
We dined at eight, and it was arranged that Major Veasey, the adjutant,
and the signalling officer should go on ahead, leaving me to keep in
telephone touch with batteries and Divisional Artillery until
communications were complete at the new headquarters.
Down below the regimental sergeant-major was loading up the G.S. waggon
and the Maltese cart. An ejaculation from Wilde, the signalling
officer, caused every one to stare through the mess door. "Why, they're
putting a bed on, ... and look at the size of it.... Hi! you can't take
that," he called out to the party below.
The doctor rose from his seat and looked down. "Why, that's _my_ bed,"
he said.
"But, doctor, you can't take a thing like that," interposed the
adjutant.
The doctor's face flushed. This being his baptismal experience of the
Front, he regarded the broad wire bed he had found in his hut as a
prize; he seemed unaware that in this part of the world similar beds
could be counted in hundreds.
"But I like that bed. I can sleep on it. I want it, and mean to have
it," he went on warmly.
"Sorry, doctor," answered the adjutant firmly. "Our carts have as much
as they can carry already."
The doctor seemed disposed to have the matter out; but Major Veasey,
who had been regarding him fixedly, and looked amused, stopped further
argument by saying, "Don't worry, doctor. There are plenty of beds at
the new position."
The doctor sat down silent but troubled, and when the others went he
said he would stay behind with me. I think he wanted my sympathy, but
the telephone kept me so busy--messages that certain batteries had
started to move, demands from the staff captain for a final return
showing the shortage of gas-shell gauntlets, and for lists of area
stores that we expected to hand over, and a request from the adjutant
to bring the barometer that he had overlooked--that there was little
time for talk.
It was half-past ten when word having come that full communication had
been established at the new position, I told the two signallers who had
remained with me to disconnect the wires; and the doctor and I set off.
It was a murky night, and the air was warmly moist. The familiar rumble
of guns doing night-firing sounded all along the Front; enemy shells
were falling in the village towards which we were walking. There was a
short cut across the river and the railway and then on through
corn-fields. To strike it we ought to pass through a particular
skeleton house in the village we were leaving, out by the back garden,
and thence along a narrow track that led across a swamp. In the dark I
failed to find the house; so we plodded on, past the church, and took
to a main road. After walking two kilometres we switched south along a
by-road that led to the position A Battery had occupied. Not a soul had
passed since we took to the main road; the Boche shells, now arriving
in greater numbers, seemed, as is always the case at night, nearer than
they actually were.
Sounds of horses and of orders sharply given! It was the last section
of A Battery pulling out; in command young Stenson, a round-faced,
newly-joined officer, alert and eager, and not ill-pleased with the
responsibility placed upon him. "Have the other sections got up all
right?" I asked him. "Yes," he answered, "although they were shelled
just before getting in and Bannister was wounded--hit in the face, not
seriously, I think." Bannister, poor fellow, died three days later.
The doctor and I passed on, following a shell-plastered road that wound
towards a rough wooden bridge, put up a week before; thence across
soggy ground and over the railway crossing. There was a slight smell
of gas, and without a word to each other we placed our box-respirators
in the alert position. To avoid the passage of a column of ammunition
waggons crunching along one of the narrow streets we stepped inside a
crumbling house. No sign of furniture, no stove, but in one
corner--quaint relic of less eventful days--a sewing-machine, not even
rusted.
A grove of poplars embowered the quarry that we were seeking; and soon
our steps were guided by the neighing of horses, and by the raised
voice of the R.S.M. hectoring his drivers. The doctor and I were to
share a smelly dug-out, in which all the flies in the world seemed to
have congregated. The doctor examined at length the Boche wire bed
allotted to him, and refused to admit that it was as comfortable as the
one left behind. However, he expressed satisfaction with the mahogany
side-board that some previous occupant had loaned from a neighbouring
house; our servants had bespread it with newspapers and made a
washing-table of it.
The doctor quickly settled himself to sleep, but there were tasks for
me. "This is where I'm the nasty man," exclaimed Major Veasey,
descending the dug-out with a signalling watch in his hand. "I'm afraid
I shall have to ask you to take the time round to the batteries and to
the --th Brigade, who aren't in communication yet with Divisional
Artillery. Sorry to fire you out in the dark--but secrecy, you know."
Zero hour was timed for 4.20 A.M.; it was now 11.30 P.M.; so I donned
steel helmet and box-respirator, and was moving off when a loud clear
voice called from the road, "Is this --nd Brigade Headquarters?" It was
Major Simpson of B Battery, buoyant and debonair. "Hallo!" he burst
forth, noticing me. "Where are you bound for?... Um--yes!... I think I
can save you part of the journey.... I'm here, and Lamswell is coming
along.... We're both going to the new positions."
Captain Lamswell of C Battery suddenly appearing, accompanied by young
Beale of A Battery, we made our way to the mess, where Major Veasey and
the adjutant were sorting out alterations in the operation orders just
brought by a D.A. despatch-rider. Beale and Major Simpson slaughtered a
few dozen flies, and accepted whiskies-and-sodas. Then I synchronised
watches with representatives of the three batteries present, and young
Beale said that he would check the time with D Battery, who were only
two minutes' walk from A. That left me to call upon the --th Brigade,
who lay on the far side of the village three parts of a mile out.
We set out, talking and jesting. There was a high expectancy in the air
that affected all of us. Major Simpson broke off humming "We are the
Robbers of the Wood" to say, "Well, if this show comes off to-morrow,
leave ought to start again." "I should shay sho," put in Lamswell in
his best Robey-cum-Billy Merson manner. "Doesn't interest me much,"
said I. "I'm such a long way down the list that it will be Christmas
before I can hope to go. The colonel told me to put in for a few days
in Paris while we were out at rest last month, but I've heard nothing
more about it."
When Major Simpson, Lamswell, and Beale, with cheery "Good-night," made
for the sunken road that led past the dressing station, and then over
the crest to their new positions, I kept on my way, leaving a
red-brick, barn-like factory on my left, and farther along a tiny
cemetery. Now that I was in open country and alone, I became more
keenly sensitive to the damp mournfulness of the night. What if
to-morrow should result in failure? It was only four months since the
Hun was swamping us with his tempestuous might! Brooding menace seemed
in the air. A sudden burst of fire from four 5.9's on to the
cross-roads I had just passed whipped my nerves into still greater
tension.
I strode on, bending my mind to the task in hand.
* * * * *
At 4.40 A.M. I lifted my head to listen to the sound of the opening
barrage--a ceaseless crackle and rumble up in front. I had not taken
off my clothes, and quickly I ascended the dug-out steps. Five hundred
yards away a 60-pdr. battery belched forth noise and flame; two 8-inch
hows. on the far side of the road numbed the hearing and made the earth
tremble. A pleasant enough morning: the sun just climbing above the
shell-shattered, leaf-bare woods in front; the moon dying palely on the
other horizon; even a school of fast-wheeling birds in the middle
distance. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour. Still no
enemy shells in this support area. Could it be that the attack had
really surprised the Boche?
I turned into the adjutant's dug-out and found him lying down,
telephone to ear. "Enemy reply barrage only slight," he was repeating.
"Any news?" I asked.
"Some of the tanks missed their way," he answered. "A Battery have had
a gun knocked out and four men hit. No communication with any of the
other batteries."