SANCTUARY WOODS
(_3rd Battle of Ypres_)
The third battle of Ypres commenced June 2, lasting until June 15, 1916.
Sanctuary Woods was a cluster of trees, comprising about one thousand in
number, and they were the very finest and noblest specimens of their
various types,--oak, elm, ash and beech. They were located just one mile
outside the city in a northwesterly direction. One of our trenches ran
northeast and southwest through the middle of the woods.
The line had been exceptionally quiet for the space of a week. My
battery of six guns was located at a château known as the Belgian
Garden, about 600 yards in the rear of the wood. Two guns were ordered
into the wood as a sacrifice battery, and my usual luck attached me to
one of them. We were located in a dry ditch, 300 yards back from the
front line. Our orders, as usual in the case of the sacrifice battery,
were to wait until the Germans, when they broke through, if they did,
were almost in line with our guns.
The morning of the 2nd was a beautiful summer's day; nature was in
perfect repose; the birds sang gayly, the humming of bees and fragrance
of flowers filled the air. We were busily engaged making our morning
ablutions in some shell holes when, like a bolt from the blue, hell
broke loose in the form of the most violent bombardment I had
experienced up to that time, lasting twenty minutes, missiles of every
kind raining down on us on all sides. "Stand to!"--and we waited.
At the end of twenty minutes our men started jumping out of their
trenches ahead of us and charging across. They were met by the enemy in
mass formation and overwhelmed. They died to a man. The Germans pressed
the attack home and came on, yelling like fiends incarnate, drunk with
the joy of their apparent success and promised victory. On they came,
apparently irresistible. We commenced firing, and I had the satisfaction
of seeing gaps blown in their ranks and many of them biting the dust.
Our poor little battery, however, feazed them but little.
And I want to say right at this time that the idea that seems to be
prevalent in the minds of many that the German is not a good fighting
man is a lamentable mistake; he is a good fighter. He has not perhaps
the initiative of the British, or the avalanche-like ardor in a charge
of the French soldier, but with his officers pressing him behind and in
mass formation, he is as formidable a foe as can be imagined.
Our ammunition was exhausted, not a shell remaining, and we grabbed our
rifles, retreating with the rest, and sniping and dropping as we fell
back. We took parts of the guns with us to prevent Fritz making use of
it, and threw them into a shell hole filled with water, as they were too
heavy to carry and manipulate our rifles at the same time, and that
ability was much more precious to us at that particular time than the
gun-parts. One of my chums had been wounded in the pit before we
retired, and was later taken prisoner, and two of my other chums were
killed in the general retreat. My pals with the other guns, forty feet
to our right, did not get all of their ammunition off before the Boches
were upon them, and they, too, died there; they were incinerated alive
in their little pit by smoke shells that started everything ablaze as
they exploded.
The retreat ended in Maple Copse Woods, where we established ourselves
and held the Germans, they resting at the edge of Sanctuary Woods. Under
orders, I and my partner started for Zillebeke, about 400 yards back
from Maple Copse, where we established an observation station, with the
necessary telephonic communication to headquarters, which, when done,
was taken in charge by a relief party from another battery, and I
returned to Belgian Gardens at 11:30 A.M., where I was put in charge of
another gun crew.
I thought I had done a fairly good morning's work and was hoping Fritz
would behave himself for the balance of the day, but my hope was a
delusion, for inside of half an hour Fritzie thought he would like to
see the scenery in Maple Copse, and came on for another try. Heavy
firing began, lasting about five minutes, and over they came again. We
opened up heavily with our battery of four guns, throwing a barrage in
his front as best we could; mine was the only battery left working on
this particular sector. Our fellows went out and met Fritz in a
hand-to-hand argument, backing up their contention so thoroughly with
the cold steel that they sent him flying back to the line he had
established at Sanctuary Woods.
But it was necessary, in order to keep him quiet, to keep up a barrage.
Our ammunition had run down to a point where we had only fourteen shells
left, and we received orders to hold two high explosive shells, one for
the muzzle and another for the breech of the gun, to put it out of
business in case they broke through.
If it became necessary to resort to the expedient of blowing up the gun,
it would be done by placing a shell in the breech of the chamber, the
breech closed, another shell inside the muzzle, the lanyard fastened to
the firing lever and strung out of the front pit door for a distance of
25 or 30 feet to a large tree standing at our rear, fastened to the
tree, and when retreating pull it from there, blowing the gun and the
gun pit into as many pieces.
We took all precautions when it became likely that we were going to be
overpowered and there was a chance of Fritz taking our gun. It is rarely
necessary to take this precaution nowadays, nor has it been for the last
two years; the shoe is on the other foot now and the returns showing
the number of heavy German guns that we have captured within the last
two years and a half, together with the fact that not a single British
gun has been lost, shows how well the work is in hand on the Western
Front.
[Illustration: Over the Top]
With their unexcelled means of observation, they soon discovered where
our little battery was hidden, and decided to end the argument with our
troublemaker there and then.
A smothering fire burst upon us, and one of the shells clipped a large
tree as easily as if it had been done with a giant razor, and it crashed
down directly in front of our gun, putting it out of business for the
time being.
In a few minutes more another shell landed on the gun forty feet to our
left, ending its usefulness, killing the crew to a man and leaving but
two guns working; a few moments more and another lit in the
telephonists' pit fifteen feet to our rear, wiping out three or four of
the fellows on duty there. Lord! it was getting hot!
We were then ordered to "Stand Down" (take cover), as the fire was
getting hotter each second and it had all the appearance of being a
wipe-out. I ordered my crew to beat it for the dugout, staying behind a
moment or two to set the sight and fasten the lanyard to blow up the gun
if needed. They started out of the gun pit, taking the turn to the
right, along the path to the dugout, which was fairly well sheltered by
big trees. I finished my work in a minute or two and took the turn to
the left. When I reached the dugout the O.C. inquired where the men
were.
"They ought to be here, sir; they left ahead of me. I will go at once
and find them."
"I'll go with you." And we started through the trees. The dugout was
only about forty yards in the rear of the gun pit and half way there we
came across my crew lying underneath a huge tree, dead. It had been
rooted from the ground, hurled in the air with the same ease as a toy
balloon and dropped on the men. The hole torn in the ground at the root
was big enough to swallow a horse and cart. Of the five members of my
crew four were dead; the remaining man, Bill Clark, had fourteen wounds
in one side of his body from splinters of the tree.
I took him to the dressing station, where his wounds were dressed. As
soon as he recovered consciousness he asked what had happened, and when
I told him that his pals, including his bosom chum, Jim Chandler, had
all been killed, he again lapsed into unconsciousness. He was later
taken to the hospital, where, after a nine-months' battle with the Grim
Reaper hovering constantly over his bed, he at last regained some of his
old-time health. But he will never again be on the firing line.
Every man was now weary, sore and thirsty, and my only grateful
recollection of that day's work was the O.C.'s command that we be given
an extra ration of rum. I am not a constitutional advocate of the brew
that glistens like gold, but that was one time when I thanked the good
Lord for that drink.
Information was conveyed to the wagon lines of the terrible toll that
had been exacted that day and the number of men that were needed to
replace the casualties. Our parson, hearing what was going on in front,
volunteered to come and officiate at the burial of the men that night,
and mounting his horse he started in company with Archie Meehan and a
small relief party.
In the meantime I had made my way back to the cellar of the château,
which we were using for a dugout, and the battery to our rear, an
Imperial battery, was firing when it received an "S.O.S." Suddenly a
German airplane hovered over the château, describing a half circle
behind the Imperial battery, spotting its flash, and immediately
wirelessing the location. Our observers, who were stationed at points on
either side, did not notice the manipulation of the airplane at the rear
of the battery. The "S.O.S." was accompanied by a burst of stars from
the Imperial British Infantry, the signal working its way down right
into the Canadian lines, where the ammunition was rapidly becoming
exhausted.
On account of the trees partially obscuring the flash of the guns of the
Imperial battery, the airship that the battery in the château saw did
not convey the exact information to the German batteries, and when they
opened up on the château, chunks out of the building and trees and a
general ripping up ensued, but their fire did not reach the battery. In
all my experience at the front, in three years, I have never known at
one time in one spot such a devastating fire as they put over at that
particular time. There were over seven batteries--forty guns--ranging
from 3 inch to 8 inch, constantly trip-hammering on the building, and
the earth trembled and quivered as though in the throes of an
earthquake.
Another gun of our Canadian battery of four guns was here put out of
action, leaving two guns out of the six. From off my gun we had removed
the fallen tree, enabling us to get it into action again. At this time
we were receiving the fire from the German batteries on the left rear,
left, front and right, leaving only our right rear free from the
destruction which was being waged on every other outlet.
Then we gathered up every shell on which we could lay hands,--shells
that had been discarded as defective, and rammed them in the guns as
fast as our arms and hands would work. At that moment the German
airplane returned, flying low and turning his machine gun upon us. We
sniped at him with our rifles, but failed to get him.
The Germans had been trying all day to reach Maple Copse, but we held
there. Our artillery observer at Zillebeke now phoned that the Huns were
massing in Sanctuary Woods--"Fire must come from somewhere." We pulled
the last two guns of the Imperial battery and shoved them out in the
open; the crews of the remaining guns of this battery were gone; these
guns were 4.05's. On they came, and we let them have it beautifully for
a good five minutes, and they faltered and fell back. In another ten
minutes they came again, when suddenly hell broke loose from our
lines,--the Empire batteries had opened up on them. These batteries
derived their name from the fact that they were comprised of Australian
guns, South African guns, guns from New Zealand, Canada, Scotland,
England, in fact every part of the Empire was represented. For a time
they smothered the German batteries in Sanctuary Woods. Then a flock of
German airplanes flew over these guns and smothered them partially for a
few minutes with their machine guns. This entire action had lasted an
hour, and at this moment the little relief party, accompanied by our
parson, arrived from the wagon lines. Again we were out of ammunition,
and the O.C. asked me if I would volunteer to go to the wagon lines
after it. "Yes, sir,"--and I mounted the parson's horse and started.
Although it had now started raining, I left the dugout with nothing on
but pants, shirt and boots; I had no gas helmet, no coat, no cap, no
puttees,--there was no time to be lost--and I was covered with grease
and dirt, and must easily have looked like an African.
I had scarcely started when a shell lifted a tree out of its roots and
threw it on the road right in front of me, but the horse cleared it with
a jump. I passed a dressing station and the sight was unspeakably sad;
laid in rows as thickly as they could be placed, the wounded men in all
stages of agony were patiently waiting their turn,--ah, God! how patient
those men were,--and scattered here and there on both sides of the road
were groups of men who had just begun their last sleep, and at sight of
them the horse would shy and balk every few yards. I had no spurs with
which to control the animal, and my work was cut out for me! he was an
ideal parson's horse, for the brute would hardly go faster than a walk.
Getting through the gas barrage, I came to a camouflage hedge, used to
screen and protect the traffic on the road, which sheltered me for four
or five hundred yards further, and then I emerged again into the open,
and again I was spotted. At this point a set of new dressing stations
had been established, and they were as busy as bees looking after
wounded men, and every moment of the time they were engaged in their
work the machine guns of the enemy planes were hammering the stretcher
bearers and the wounded men as industriously as though they were
attacking fighting men. It was quite evident they knew I was a dispatch
rider, and I was a target every step of the way, shells being planted
before me, behind me and on each side of me. But I knew the Major's
thought was with me every foot of the way; I knew he was counting the
seconds until I would reach the wagon lines and deliver the message--and
the only message--that would save the position; I knew he was praying
for me that very moment and I knew that every man in the battery was
doing the same thing. If I failed! It was not with me a question of my
life; I didn't care a damn for that, and every man of us, on that day
anyway, felt the same. But I must hasten with all the speed that was in
me, and I must keep my life, and my head as well, that the others might
live.
Finally, I got the horse started on a straight run, came to a bridge
crossing the Rampart Canal, but they were shelling the bridge so
violently it would have been certain destruction to have attempted
getting across. Jumping off, I pulled the horse into a ruined building,
and there in the twilight I had a splendid opportunity to view the
efficiency of the German observation work. They were making the most
determined effort to prevent any communication being sent to the wagon
lines for ammunition, and one continual stream of shells was following
me down the road; they were dropping as thickly as hailstones for the
entire distance up and down the road as far as I could see. I waited
there ten minutes and then led the horse out, walking a hundred yards
towards the bridge. Then came another burst of shells; again I stopped
for a few minutes, made another hundred yards, and another bursting
storm of shells. I was walking the horse all this time, but I made up my
mind the time had come to make a dash for it. I jumped on his back, lay
flat as a pancake, and with a good stout stick I lammed that poor brute
as few horses ever were lammed, made a dash for the bridge and got
safely across.
About 100 yards over and down came a burst of concussion shells, flying
and blowing everything around to smithereens. I was now very close to
the square and could see it was being strafed for fair. My experience in
watching and timing shell fire now stood me in good stead. I was able
by the action of the shells to instantly determine whether the German
guns were jumping, rendering their aim uncertain, and, also, to know
when the next burst would come, where it would strike, and about how it
would operate,--whether gas, shrapnel, or what not. Men were clinging to
the walls, trying to take shelter, and it was clearly impossible to get
through with the horse. I retraced my steps half way to the ruined
building I had just left ten minutes before; I was looking longingly at
it, wishing for its friendly shelter, when a shell struck it, blowing it
to dust. I then led the horse, hugging the walls as closely as I could,
until I got to the edge of the square, then made a run for it across,
and had just cleared it when another cluster burst, wounding the horse
in the leg. Notwithstanding his wound, he managed to bear me up until I
got to the railroad crossing, lying southwesterly from the square about
500 yards distant. Here the airplane spotted me again and directed a
barrage to stop me crossing, but I took the chance and got through it.
Every step of the way to the bridge crossing the Yser Canal, shells were
being planted at my heels. I can only liken my state of mind to that of
the tenderfoot in the saloon of the Wild and Woolly, when Halfbreed
Harvey, just for the fun of it, took a revolver in each hand and
commenced sending the nuggets of lead into the floor at the unoffending
feet of the "Lady from the East," just to see him dance. When I came to
within 50 yards of it I saw it was clearly impossible to cross on
account of the heavy shell clusters that were raining down.
I waited for a lull in the storm, then slipped on the animal's back, dug
my heels in its ribs and rushed for it. I was spattered with mud from
head to foot from the exploding shells, but not a single splinter
reached me.
As I left the bridge of the canal a hole was blown into it, and a
working party, that was kept there all the time for the especial purpose
of keeping it in repair, crawled out of their hiding places to engage in
their perilous task. It was vitally necessary to keep this bridge intact
to facilitate the supplies crossing and recrossing every minute of the
night.
The friendly cover of a hedge sheltered me for another hundred yards,
and here followed a row of buildings that I hugged until I came to a
narrow-gauge trench railroad. Clinging to the walls around were
hundreds of wounded men waiting for a conveyance. There was an open
stretch from this point and the fliers found me again; their machine-gun
fire was directed at once fairly into the middle of the road before me
and behind me; their range message was again flashed to their heavies
and cobblestones were uprooted and flying everywhere; but the good Lord
was with me and I pulled through it. A couple of large trees that had
been blown down across the road next intervened, but the horse, lame as
he was, cleared them.
I reached the Belgian Château; strafing was going on fearfully in an
endeavor to smash the headquarters; men were running hither and thither,
stringing telephone wires as quickly as they were shot away; battalions
of infantry, fresh troops who had not yet been up the line, were working
their way to their destination; chaos seemed to reign on every hand. And
yet, there was order. Leaving the Belgian Château, there was a hedge for
two or three hundred yards which afforded me cover until I got to the
road; there I saw a group of enemy airplanes gradually lowering until
they got down to within a few hundred yards of the railroad; they
dropped their bombs on the batteries here, starting monster ammunition
fires and killing and wounding the gunners.
Although pandemonium reigned everywhere, the guns never hesitated to go
on with their work as steadfastly as though they were digging drains in
peace time. The fierceness of the fire caused the horse to balk
continually, and I again had to get off its back and lead it. This fire
was from guns from practically every quarter of the Empire. It was
impossible to make any speed now, even with the horse, as the road was
black with holes everywhere, and I started to go around what is known as
Snake Road. Shells were dropping everywhere; dead horses were piled one
on top of the other; huge lorries were lying in the ditches and men were
emptying them of their contents and carrying the ammunition on their
backs up to the batteries. Here and there were small hills of empty
shell cases; there was also considerable danger from the loaded shells
that were scattered about that had been spilled from the ammunition
wagon, as a kick from the horse on the fuse would have exploded any one
of them.
As the lorries advanced up the Snake Road and delivered their
ammunition, they left by another road running straight south; this
latter was packed with ambulances waiting to take wounded out, and
civilians were running madly here and there endeavoring to get out of
the fire zone.
I reached Ouderham, which was at that time out of the range of the fire;
estaminets were getting ready to close for the night, the hour of ten
having struck. The ammunition drivers were lying around taking things
easy and not expecting an ammunition call, but the moment I hove in
sight they raced out to the wagon line. Many and eager were the
inquiries fired at me as to what was happening up the line. They knew
the parson had gone up and they were burning to know what was doing. I
told them as well as I could.
"Stand to!" from the Q.M. and they came running from their tents, not
waiting to take even a blanket, throwing in their equipment as fast as
they could, trotting their horses over to the ammunition trucks and
hitching them up.
"Stand to your horses! Prepare to mount! Mount!" came the three distinct
orders roared out by the Quartermaster, with scarcely a second's time
between each and its fulfillment. With a gunner in each wagon we
started in less than eight minutes from the time the order was given,
trotting as hard as horses could trot over the cobblestones.
It was not long before we came in contact with the fire, but luck was
with us and we escaped until we got to the ammunition dump, where we
loaded up with ammunition as fast as men ever worked; it was a joy
forever to see those boys work. We had to load up in chain fashion, as
it was impossible for the wagons to get to a dump more than four at a
time, and the loading was done by the men passing the shells from hand
to hand until each wagon was loaded. Then not a second was lost in
starting. The crossroads were reached, but the traffic was so congested
we could not pass for a while.
Shells were raining down when we finally started, one of them blowing
the body off one of our wagons, leaving the limber, but no further
damage beyond the driver, Luther, breaking his leg. A gunner took his
place and Luther was laid in the gutter until such time as he could be
picked up. We galloped past the Empire battery, got to the Belgian
Garden at last, taking cover under a clump of trees until the firing had
cooled somewhat, and then we took the chance--it was one in ten--to get
by. Starting on a dead gallop, shells commenced to chase us all the way
up the road. Keeping as well under cover of the hedge as we could, we
crossed the railroad bridge, and as we neared the entrance to Ypres
square the fire again cooled down; but on getting into the square 25
shells, exploding one after the other as quickly as so many seconds,
followed by thunderclaps of brain-splitting noise, ripped up the paving
stones, flinging them in all directions, and taking chunks out of the
eight wagons and wheels. Trotting sharply through the square, we got to
Rampart Bridge, which they were showering with shells to prevent our
engineers repairing it; it was badly smashed and we had to go a long way
around by Ypres Rampart.
Here we left the road and took a chance of getting across the open
country, picking our way in the fields among the shell holes, eventually
getting in back of the Garden, where we strung our wagons in the rear
until the order "Ammunition up!" was given, and out from the dugouts
rushed the men to unload the precious cargo. Here the captain and
lieutenant were wounded, but they refused to go to hospital, saying
their wounds were too slight; and, indeed, I can honestly say that
every man that night who was wounded and could manage to hold out, did
so; each one seemed to be imbued with the idea that his presence was
absolutely necessary for the success of the plan in hand.
"You did not need to come back, Grant," said the Major, upon my return.
"I intended you should stay at the wagon lines tonight."
"Thank you, sir, but I'd rather be back."
"That's right, that's how we all feel."
That I was more than pleased at this mark of approval from my O.C. goes
without saying.
Chains of men formed from the ammunition wagons into the gun pit, shells
were passed from hand to hand to the guns where the men were waiting
them, and I thought I saw tears of joy in the eyes of the Tommy as he
caressed the first shell handed him. "That's for luck," he cried, as he
spat on it. The gunners exploded them as fast as they were given them.
The work was proceeding nicely when an airplane, flying low over the
Garden, spotted our ammunition wagons; he signaled the place back to his
batteries and shells from the guns behind hill 60 opened up on us; it
became exceedingly violent; many of the horses and wagons were smashed.
This was the order all night long,--wagons arriving with shells, shells
passing from hand to hand to the guns, discharged by the gunners as fast
as they were received, and enemy shells rained at us without let-up. We
were at our posts all night long. Before daybreak the storm slackened
and we got a breathing spell for a few hours.
Immediately after breakfast, at daybreak, the concert opened up afresh,
and for full seven days, June 2, to June 9, no man got a full hour's
sleep at a time. When not being shelled by the German batteries, the
machine gun bullets were raining around; if neither of these agencies of
hell were busy, airplanes were flying, many times so low that they
seemed to be even with the tops of the trees and singing us their
humming hymn of hate. An idea of the deadly nature of the conflict may
be had from the first day's casualties, that covered several thousand of
our men.
On the seventh day the German fire was so heavy it was impossible to get
ammunition up to the guns, and we pulled the backs out of the gun pit as
fast as we could smash them, man-handled the guns out of the Garden
down on to a little unused road in the rear of the railroad,
three-quarters of a mile southwest of the Garden; here the grass was a
foot or two in length, and we covered the guns with it and some brush,
dug out some large shell holes for them, then the wagons pulled up
there, unloading the ammunition, eight hundred to a thousand rounds
apiece, and we got orders to open up as an "S.O.S." came from the
trenches.
Fritz was not aware of our new position, for his fire was wild, and in
the darkness we were safe from the airplanes, although their humming was
distinctly audible as they flew here and there vainly looking for our
new spot. We worked the guns until 2 o'clock, cleaned them up and got a
couple of hours' badly-needed sleep.
At 4:45 A.M. next day another "S.O.S." came from the trenches, and, as
fast as we could do so, we let them have it,--this time in Sanctuary
Woods. Fritz replied, but his fire was wild. Again the planes came, in
an effort to find us, and we got the "keep-firing" whistle. The planes
still hovered over us and, under the urgency of a new demand from our
trenches, we again had to open up, and this time the plane found us, and
the result was quickly seen by a group of visitors breaking directly
over us. To register our battery was the work of but a few minutes. The
first blast was too far to the right; the next fell short, and again the
correction was made; with just three corrections they had our number;
the fourth shell got its mark. The lighter German batteries then passed
the range back to the heavies, 5.09 Howitzer batteries, and inside of a
minute we were the object of their earnest attention. Their first shell
smashed No. 2 gun and crew, leaving us with two guns. We held up our end
for half an hour, each moment expecting to get the dose they gave No. 2.
The efficiency of our work was disclosed during the day by the efforts
Fritz made to smother us; his fire became so intense we were ordered to
leave the battery and take refuge in the basement of a French
schoolhouse near by, and from there we had to watch the destruction of
our remaining two guns from the concentrated fire of five German
batteries of all calibers poured upon them. Our ammunition was
completely destroyed, and they struck No. 2 gun repeatedly, but the two
other guns were left intact.
It was now about 11 o'clock A.M. and orders were flashed for more guns
and more ammunition; then the fire cooled down. During the day two more
new guns were brought up, together with one thousand shells, and
everything was ready for the retaking of Sanctuary Woods the following
morning. Between three and five o'clock the next A.M. the 13th, 15th and
16th Scotch-Canadian Battalion, some of Canada's finest regiments, along
with several others, streamed up the road. Wherever the sweep of the
kiltie went, there was going to be something doing.
Daylight. "Stand to the battery! Targets, front-line trenches!" We
opened up for thirty minutes; our telephonist reported there was such a
smoke from the barrage that they could not see the infantry, but the
woods were on fire. The Empire battery, together with heavy naval guns
that had been brought up, and armored trains, were all concentrating
their trip-hammers on the place. It was now evident that every living
thing in the woods must be dead, as nothing could live under the
hurricane of fire.
We next attacked the road, stopping the German reserves and ammunition
from getting near. Then--"Over!"
The net result of the day's work was--the woods, the German front-line
trenches, three thousand prisoners, German dead and wounded piled in
heaps; wherever the eye turned, the shell holes, trenches and ditches
were packed with wounded, dead and dying Huns.
Our captain asked for volunteer observers, and I offered. We went into
the place where once was Maple Copse Woods, but it was no more; here and
there was a standing tree, but not a leaf or limb left of it, and the
trunks were littered with pieces of steel and iron. Before the battle
commenced, this spot was one of the loveliest places in the country
round about that one could well imagine. Flowers, shrubbery and the
rarest of plants of all kinds were there in abundance. This day it was a
scarred ruin; the savagery of destruction was so terrible it is
indescribable.
We wound our way amongst the dead and the wounded to the top of Mont
Soreul, first stopping to take a peep at our old guns; they were still
there, but badly battered up; Fritz evidently thought it was barely
possible we might have a chance to use them again. We reached our old
telephonist's hut on the hill, looked around for Lieutenant Matthews,
but he wasn't there; he had been wounded and taken prisoner.
We established lines of communication at once, to hold the Germans back
while we built up our own front. Our men were now coming back from their
trip and our batteries put up one of the fiercest barrages I have ever
witnessed to protect them on their return.