casual. We had seen parties of them in June and July, training in the
Contay area, north of the Albert-Amiens road; and one day during that
period I accompanied our colonel and the colonel of our companion
brigade on a motor trip to the coast, and we passed some thousands of
them hard at work getting fit, and training with almost fervid
enthusiasm. It used to be a joke of mine that on one occasion my horse
shied because an Australian private saluted me. No one could make a
friendly jest of like kind against the American soldiers. When first
they arrived in France no troops were more punctilious in practising
the outward and visible evidences of discipline. Fit, with the perfect
fitness of the man from 23 to 28, not a weed amongst them,
intelligent-looking, splendidly eager to learn, they were much akin in
physique and general qualities to our own immortal "First Hundred
Thousand." I came across colonels and majors of the New York and
Illinois Divisions getting experience in the line with our brigadiers
and colonels. I have seen U.S. Army N.C.O.'s out in the field receiving
instruction from picked N.C.O.'s of our army in the art of shouting
orders. Their officers and men undertook this training with a certain
shy solemnity that I myself thought very attractive. I am doing no
lip-service to a "wish is father to the thought" sentiment when I say
that a manly modesty in respect to military achievements characterised
all the fighting American soldiers that I met.
They were not long in tumbling into the humours of life at the front. I
remember an episode told with much enjoyment by a major of the regular
U.S. Army, who spent a liaison fortnight with our Division.
There is a word that appears at least once a day on orders sent out
from the "Q" or administrative branch of the British Army. It is the
word "Return": "Return of Personnel," "Casualty Returns," "Ammunition
Returns," &c., all to do with the compilation of reports. The American
Division to which the major belonged had been included among the units
of a British Corps. When, in course of time, the Division was
transferred elsewhere Corps Q branch wired, "Return wanted of all tents
and trench shelters in your possession." Next day the American Division
received a second message: "Re my 0546/8023, hasten return of tents and
trench shelters."
The day following the Corps people were startled by the steady arrival
of scores of tents and trench shelters. The wires hummed furiously, and
the Corps staff captain shouted his hardest, explaining over a
long-distance telephone that "Hasten return" did not mean "Send back as
quickly as possible."
"And we thought we had got a proper move on sending back those tents,"
concluded the American major who told me the story.
And now we were in action with these virile ardent fellows. Two of
their Divisions took part in the great battle which at 5.30 A.M. opened
on a 35-mile front--ten days of bloody victorious fighting, by which
three armies shattered the last and strongest of the enemy's
fully-prepared positions, and struck a vital blow at his main
communications.
The first news on Sept. 27th was of the best. On our part of the front
the Americans had swept forward, seized the two ruined farms that were
their earliest objectives, and surged to the top of a knoll that had
formed a superb point of vantage for the Boche observers. By 7.30 A.M.
the Brigade was told to warn F.O.O.'s that our bombers would throw red
flares outside the trenches along which they were advancing to indicate
their position.
But again there was to be no walk-over. The Boche counter-attack was
delivered on the Americans' left flank. We were ordered to fire a
two-hours' bombardment upon certain points towards which the enemy was
pouring his troops; and the colonel told me to instruct our two
F.O.O.'s to keep a particular look-out for hostile movement.
By 11 A.M. Division issued instructions for all gun dumps to be made up
that night to 500 rounds per gun. "Stiff fighting ahead," commented the
colonel.
At three o'clock Dumble, who was commanding A Battery, Major Bullivant
having gone on leave, reported that the Americans were withdrawing from
the knoll to trenches four hundred yards in rear, where they were
reorganising their position.
That settled the fighting for the day, although there was speedy
indication of the Boche's continued liveliness: a plane came over, and
by a daring manoeuvre set fire to three of our "sausage" balloons, the
observers having to tumble out with their parachutes. All this time I
had remained glued to the telephone for the receipt of news and the
passing of orders. There was opportunity now to give thought to the
fortifying of our headquarters. Hubbard, who prided himself on his
biceps, had engaged in a brisk discussion with the officers of a
near-by Artillery brigade headquarters regarding the dug-out that he
and myself and "Ernest" had occupied the night before. Originally it
had been arranged that we should share quarters with them, dug-outs in
a neighbouring bank having been allotted for their overflow of
signallers. But at the last moment an Infantry brigade headquarters had
"commandeered" part of their accommodation, and they gave up the
dug-out that Hubbard and I had slept in, with the intimation that they
would want it on the morrow. As Hubbard had discovered that they were
in possession of four good dug-outs on the opposite side of the road,
he said we ought to be allowed to retain our solitary one. But no! they
stuck to their rights, and during the morning's battle a stream of
protesting officers came to interview Hubbard. Their orderly officer
was suave but anxious; their signalling officer admitted the previous
arrangement to share quarters; Hubbard remained firm, and said that if
the Infantry brigade had upset their arrangements, they themselves had
upset ours. I was too busy to enter at length into the argument, but I
agreed to send a waggon and horses to fetch material if they chose to
build a new place. When their adjutant came over and began to use
sarcasm, I referred the matter to our colonel, who decided, "Their
Division has sent us here. The dug-out is in our area. There is no
other accommodation. We shall keep it."
"Will you come over and see our colonel, sir?" asked the adjutant
persuasively.
"Certainly not," replied the colonel with some asperity.
The next arrivals were a gas officer and a tall ebullient Irish
doctor, who said that the dug-out had been prepared for them. Hubbard
conveyed our colonel's decision, and ten minutes later his servant
brought news that the doctor's servant had been into the dug-out and
replaced our kit by the doctor's.
Hubbard, smiling happily, slipped out of our gun-pit mess, and the next
item of news from this bit of front informed me that our valises had
been replaced and the doctor's kit put outside. Hubbard told me he had
informed the doctor and the gas officer that, our colonel having made
his decision, he was prepared to repeat the performance every time they
invaded the dug-out. "And I was ready to throw them after their kit if
necessary," he added, expanding his chest.
The upshot of it all was that our horses fetched fresh material, and we
helped to find the doctor and the gas officer a home.
The battle continued next day, our infantry nibbling their way into the
Boche defences and allowing him no rest. The artillery work was not so
strenuous as on the previous day, and Hubbard and I decided to dig a
dug-out for the colonel. It was bonny exercise for me. "I think every
adjutant ought to have a pit to dig in--adjutants get too little
exercise," I told the colonel. After which Hubbard, crouching with his
pick, offered practical tuition in the science of underpinning. We
sweated hard and enjoyed our lunch. Judd and young Beale reported back
from leave, and Beale caused a sensation by confessing that he had got
married. A Corps wire informed every unit that Lance-Corporal
Kleinberg-Hermann, "5 ft. 8, fair hair, eyes blue, scar above nose, one
false tooth in front, dressed German uniform," and Meyer Hans, "6 ft.,
fair hair, brown eyes, thin face, wears glasses, speaks English and
French fluently, dressed German uniform," had escaped from a prisoners
of war camp. The mail brought a letter from which the colonel learnt
that a long-time friend, a lieut.-colonel in the Garrison Artillery,
had been killed. He had lunched with us one day in June, a bright-eyed,
grizzled veteran, with a whimsical humour. India had made him look
older than his years. "They found his body in No Man's Land," said the
colonel softly. "They couldn't get to it for two days."
At half-past nine that night we learned that our own Divisional
infantry were coming up in front of us again. There was to be another
big attack, to complete the work begun by the Americans, and at zero
hour we should pass under the command of our Divisional artillery. At
four in the morning the telephone near my pillow woke me up, and Major
Bartlett reported that the Boche had started a barrage. "I don't think
he suspects anything," said the major. "It's only ordinary
counter-preparation." In any case it didn't affect our attack, which
started with splendid zest. The Boche plunked a few gas shells near us;
but by 9.15 the brigade-major told me that the Americans and our own
infantry had advanced a thousand yards and were on their first
objective. "I smell victory to-day," said the colonel, looking at his
map. By half-past ten Major Bartlett's battery had moved forward two
thousand yards, and the major had joined a battalion commander so as to
keep pace with the onward rush of the infantry.
Good news tumbled in. At 10.50 the intelligence officer of our
companion Artillery brigade rang up to tell me that their liaison
officer had seen our troops entering the southern end of a well-known
village that lay along the canal.
"Ring up A and B at once," interjected the colonel, "and tell them to
stop their bursts of fire, otherwise they will be firing on our own
people. Tell our liaison officer with the --th Infantry Brigade that we
are no longer firing on the village.... And increase the how. battery's
range by 1000 yards."
Five minutes later the brigade-major let us know that the Corps on our
left had cleared a vastly important ridge, but their most northerly
Division was held up by machine-gun fire. When the situation was eased
they would advance upon the canal. Our D Battery was now firing at
maximum range, and at 11.20 the colonel ordered them to move up
alongside C.
The exhilarating swiftness of the success infected every one. Drysdale
rang up to know whether we hadn't any fresh targets for D Battery. "I'm
sure we've cleared out every Boche in the quarry you gave us," he said.
The staff captain told us he was bringing forward his ammunition dumps.
The old wheeler was observed to smile. Even the telephone seemed to be
working better than for months past. In restraint of over-eagerness,
complaints of short shooting filtered in from the infantry, but I
established the fact that our batteries were not the sinners.
By tea-time all the batteries had advanced, and the colonel, "Ernest,"
and myself were walking at the head of the headquarters waggon and mess
carts through a village that a fortnight before had been a hotbed of
Germany's hardest fighting infantry.
The longer the time spent in the fighting area, the stronger that
secret spasm of apprehension when a shift forward to new positions had
to be made. The ordinary honest-souled member of His Majesty's forces
will admit that to be a true saying. The average healthy-minded recruit
coming to the Western Front since July 1916 marvelled for his first
six months on the thousands of hostile shells that he saw hitting
nothing in particular, and maiming and killing nobody. If he survived a
couple of years he lost all curiosity about shells that did no harm; he
had learned that in the forward areas there was never real safety, the
fatal shell might come at the most unexpected moment, in the most
unlooked-for spot: it might be one solitary missile of death, it might
accompany a hideous drove that beat down the earth all around, and
drenched a whole area with sickening scorching fumes; he might not show
it, but he had learned to fear.
But on this move-up we were agog with the day's fine news. We were in
the mood to calculate on the extent of the enemy's retirement: for the
moment his long-range guns had ceased to fire. We talked seriously of
the war ending by Christmas. We laughed when I opened the first
Divisional message delivered at our new Headquarters: "Divisional
Cinema will open at Lieramont to-morrow. Performances twice daily, 3
P.M. and 6 P.M." "That looks as if our infantry are moving out," I
said.
We had taken over a bank and some shallow, aged dug-outs, occupied the
night before by our C Battery; and as there was a chill in the air that
foretold rain, and banks of sombre clouds were lining up in the western
sky, we unloaded our carts and set to work getting our belongings under
cover while it was still light. "There's no pit for you to dig in," the
colonel told me quizzingly, "but you can occupy yourself filling these
ammunition boxes with earth; they'll make walls for the mess." Hubbard
had been looking for something heavy to carry; he brought an enormous
beam from the broad-gauge railway that lay a hundred yards west of us.
The colonel immediately claimed it for the mess roof. "We'll fix it
centre-wise on the ammunition boxes to support the tarpaulin," he
decided. "Old Fritz has done his dirtiest along the railway," said
Hubbard cheerfully. "He's taken a bit out of every rail; and he's blown
a mine a quarter of a mile down there that's giving the sappers
something to think about. They told me they want to have trains running
in two days."
Meanwhile the signallers had been cleaning out the deep shaft they were
to work in; the cooks and the clerks had selected their own
rabbit-hutches; and I had picked a semi-detached dug-out in which were
wire beds for the colonel, Hubbard, and myself. True, a shell had made
a hole in one corner of the iron roof, and the place was of such
antiquity that rats could be heard squeaking in the vicinity of my
bed-head, but I hoped that a map-board fixed behind my pillow would
protect me from unpleasantness.
The colonel was suspicious of the S.O.S. line issued to us by Division
that night. The ordinary rules of gunnery provide that the angle of
sight to be put on the guns can be calculated from the difference
between the height of the ground on which the battery stands and the
height at the target. More often than not ridges intervene between the
gun and the target, and the height and position of these ridges
sometimes cause complications in the reckoning of the angle of sight,
particularly if a high ridge is situated close to the object to be shot
at. Without going into full explanation, I hope I may be understood
when I say that the correct angle of sight, calculated from the map
difference in height between battery and target, occasionally fails to
ensure that the curve described by the shell in its flight will finish
sufficiently high in the air for the shell to clear the final crest.
When that happens shells fall on the wrong side of the ridge, and our
own infantry are endangered. It is a point to which brigade-majors and
brigade commanders naturally give close attention.
The colonel looked at his map, shook his head, said, "I don't like that
ridge," and got out his ruler and made calculations. Then he talked
over the telephone to the brigade-major. "Yes, I know that
theoretically, by every ordinary test, we should be safe in shooting
there, and I know what you want to shoot at.... But there's a risk, and
I should prefer to be on the safe side.... Will you speak to the
General about it?"
The colonel gained his point, and at 10.20 P.M. issued a further order
to the batteries:--
"Previous S.O.S. line is cancelled, as it is found that the
hillside is so steep that our troops in Tino Support Trench may
be hit.
"Complaints of short shooting have been frequent all day.
Henceforth S.O.S. will be as follows...."
"I'll write out those recommendations for honours and awards before
turning in," he said, a quarter of an hour later, searching through the
box in which confidential papers were kept. "Now, what was it I wanted
to know?--oh, I remember. Ring up Drysdale, and ask him whether the
corporal he put in is named Marchman or Marshman. His writing is not
very clear.... If he's gone to bed, say I'm sorry to disturb him, but
these things want to be got in as soon as possible."
It was a quiet night as far as shell-fire was concerned, but a furious
rain-storm permitted us very little sleep, and played havoc with the
mess. Our documents remained safe, though most of them were saturated
with water. In the morning it was cold enough to make one rub one's
hands and stamp the feet. There was plenty of exercise awaiting us in
the enlarging and rebuilding of the mess. We made it a very secure
affair this time. "What about a fire, sir?" inquired Hubbard.
"Good idea," said the colonel. He and Hubbard used pick and shovel to
fashion a vertical, triangular niche in the side of the bank. The
staff-sergeant fitter returned with a ten-foot stove-pipe that he had
found in the neighbouring village; and before ten o'clock our first
mess fire since the end of April was crackling merrily and burning up
spare ammunition boxes.
The colonel went off to tour the batteries, saying, "I'll leave you to
fight the battle." The brigade-major's first telephone talk at 10.35
A.M. left no doubt that we were pushing home all the advantages gained
the day before. "I want one good burst on ---- Trench," he said. "After
that cease firing this side of the canal until I tell you to go on."
The news an hour later was that our Divisional Infantry patrols were
working methodically through Vendhuile, the village on the canal bank,
which the Americans had entered the day before. Next "Buller," who was
with the Infantry brigade, called up, and said that the mopping-up in
the village had been most successful: our fellows were thrusting for
the canal bridge, and had yet to encounter any large enemy forces. At
twenty to one the brigade-major told me that our people were moving
steadily to the other side of the canal. "We're properly over the
Hindenburg Line this time," he wound up.
The Brigadier-General C.R.A. came to see us during the afternoon, and
we learned for the first time that on the previous day the Americans
had fought their way right through Vendhuile, but, on account of their
impetuosity, had lost touch with their supports. "They fought
magnificently, but didn't mop-up as they went along," explained the
General. "The Boche tried the trick he used to play on us. He hid until
the first wave had gone by, and then came up with his machine-guns and
fired into their backs.... It's a great pity.... I'm afraid that six
hundred of them who crossed the canal have been wiped out."
"I hear that our infantry go out for a proper rest as soon as this is
over," he added. "They brought them up again to complete the smashing
of the Hindenburg Line, because they didn't want to draw upon the three
absolutely fresh Divisions they were keeping to chase the Hun
immediately he yielded the Hindenburg Line. Our infantry must have
fought themselves to a standstill these last three weeks."
"Any news about us?" inquired the colonel.
"No; I'm afraid the gunners will have to carry on as usual.... The
horses seem to be surviving the ordeal very well...."
At 4.25 P.M.--I particularly remember noting the time--we were told by
Division that Bulgaria's surrender was unconditional. "That will be
cheering news for the batteries," observed the colonel. "I'd send that
out." The brigade-major also informed us that British cavalry were
reported to be at Roulers, north-east of Ypres--but that wasn't
official. "Anyhow," said the colonel, his face glowing, "it shows the
right spirit. Yes, I think the war will be over by Christmas after
all."
"It would be great to be home by Christmas, sir," put in Hubbard.
"Yes," responded the colonel in the same vein, "but it wouldn't be so
bad even out here.... I don't think any of us would really mind
staying another six months if we had no 5.9's to worry us." And he
settled down to writing his daily letter home.
October came in with every one joyously expectant. The enemy still
struggled to hold the most valuable high ground on the far side of the
canal, but there was little doubt that he purposed a monster
withdrawal--and our batteries did their best to quicken his decision. The
brigade-major departed for a Senior Staff Course in England, and Major
"Pat" of our sister brigade, a highly efficient and extremely popular
officer, who, with no previous knowledge of soldiering, had won deserved
distinction, filled his place. Major "Pat" was a disciple of cheering
news for the batteries. "This has just come in by the wireless," he
telephoned to me on October 2nd. "Turkey surrendered--British ships
sailing through the Dardanelles--Lille being evacuated--British
bluejackets landed at Ostend."
"Is that official?" I asked wonderingly.
He laughed. "No, I didn't say that.... It's a wireless report."
"Not waggon line?" I went on.
He laughed again. "No, I'll let you know when it becomes official."
Formal intimation was to hand that Dumble, Judd, Bob Pottinger, young
Beale, Stenson, and Tincler had been awarded the Military Cross, and
Major Veasey the D.S.O. Drysdale was happy because, after many times of
asking, he had got back from headquarters, Patrick, the black charger
that he had ridden early in 1916.
The tide of success rolled on. A swift little attack on the morning of
October 3rd took the infantry we were supporting, now that our own
battalions had withdrawn for a fortnight's rest, on to valuable high
ground east of the canal. "They met with such little opposition that
our barrage became merely an escort," was the way in which Beadle, who
was doing F.O.O., described the advance. Surrendering Germans poured
back in such numbers that dozens of them walked unattended to the
prisoners of war cages. "I saw one lot come down," a D.A.C. officer
told me. "All that the sentry had to do was to point to the cage with a
'This-way-in' gesture, and in they marched."
One wee cloud blurred the high-spirited light-heartedness of those
days. We lost "Ernest," who had marched forward with us and been our
pet since Sept. 6th. The colonel and Hubbard took him up the line; the
little fellow didn't seem anxious to leave me that morning, but I
thought that a run would do him good, and he had followed the colonel a
couple of days before. "I'm sorry, but we've lost 'Ernest,'" was the
colonel's bluntly told news when he returned. "He disappeared when I
was calling on B Battery.... They said he went over the hill with an
infantry officer, who had made much of him.... It's curious, because he
stuck to us when I went to see the infantry at Brigade Headquarters,
although every one in their very long dug-out fussed over him."
There was poor chance of the dog finding his way back to us in that
country of many tracks, amid the coming to and fro of thousands of all
kinds of troops. We never saw or heard of him again. The loss of him
dispirited all of us a bit; and I suppose I felt it more than most: he
had been a splendid little companion for nearly a month.
The adjutant and Wilde returned from leave on Oct. 3rd, full of the
bright times to be spent in London. "People in England think the war's
all over. They don't realise that pursuing the Boche means fighting
him as well," burst forth the adjutant. "By Gad," he went on, "we had a
narrow escape the day we went on leave. I never saw anything like it in
my life. You remember the factory at Moislains, near the place where we
were out for three or four days at the beginning of last month. Well,
Wilde and I caught a leave bus that went that way on the road to
Amiens. The bus had to pull up about five hundred yards short of the
factory, because there was a lot of infantry in front of us.... And
just at that moment a Boche mine blew up.... Made an awful mess....
About eleven men killed.... We had taken the place three weeks before,
and the mine had remained undiscovered all that time.... We must all of
us have passed over that spot many times. You remember they made a Red
Cross Station of the factory.... A most extraordinary thing!"