_Highlanders! Four hundred yards! At the enemy advancing half-left,
rapid fire_!
Twenty minutes had passed. The regiment still stood immovable, though
its left flank was now utterly exposed. All eyes and rifles were fixed
upon the cluster of cottages. Through the gaps that lay between these
could be discerned the advance of the German infantry--line upon line,
moving towards the trench upon our left. The ground to our front was
clear. Each time one of these lines passed a gap the rifles rang out
and Ayling's remaining machine-gun uttered joyous barks. Still the
enemy advanced. His shrapnel was bursting overhead; bullets were
whistling from nowhere, for the attack in force was now being pressed
home in earnest.
The deserted trench upon our left ran right through the cottages, and
this restricted our view. No hostile bombers could be seen; it was
evident that they had done their bit and handed on the conduct of
affairs to others. Behind the shelter of the cottages the infantry
were making a safe detour, and were bound, unless something unexpected
happened, to get round behind us.
"They'll be firing from our rear in a minute," said Kemp between his
teeth. "Lochgair, order your platoon to face about and be ready to
fire over the parados."
Young Lochgair's method of executing this command was
characteristically thorough. He climbed in leisurely fashion upon the
parados; and standing there, with all his six-foot-three in full view,
issued his orders.
"Face this way, boys! Keep your eyes on that group of buildings just
behind the empty trench, in below the Fosse. You'll get some
target practice presently. Don't go and forget that you are the
straightest-shooting platoon in the Company. There they are"--he
pointed with his stick--"lots of them--coming through that gap in the
wall! Now then, rapid fire, and let them have it! Oh, well done, boys!
Good shooting! Very good! Very good ind--"
He stopped suddenly, swayed, and toppled back into the trench. Major
Kemp caught him in his arms, and laid him gently upon the chalky
floor. There was nothing more to be done. Young Lochgair had given his
platoon their target, and the platoon were now firing steadily upon
the same. He closed his eyes and sighed, like a tired child.
"Carry on, Major!" he murmured faintly. "I'm all right."
So died the simple-hearted, valiant enthusiast whom we had christened
Othello.
The entire regiment--what was left of it--was now firing over the
back of the trench; for the wily Teuton had risked no frontal attack,
seeing that he could gain all his ends from the left flank.
Despite vigorous rifle fire and the continuous maledictions of the
machine-gun, the enemy were now pouring through the cottages behind
the trench. Many grey figures began to climb up the face of Fosse
Eight, where apparently there was none to say them nay.
"We shall have a cheery walk back, I _don't_ think!" murmured
Wagstaffe.
He was right. Presently a withering fire was opened from the summit
of the Fosse, which soon began to take effect in the exiguous and
ill-protected trench.
"The Colonel is wounded, sir," reported the Sergeant-Major to Major
Kemp.
"Badly?"
"Yes, sir."
Kemp looked round him. The regiment was now alone in the trench, for
the gallant company upon their right had been battered almost out of
existence.
"We can do no more good by staying here any longer," said the Major.
"We have done our little bit. I think it is a case of 'Home, John!'
Tell off a party to bring in the C.O., Sergeant-Major."
Then he passed the order.
"Highlanders, retire to the trenches behind, by Companies, beginning
from the right."
"Whatever we may think of the Bosche as a gentleman," mused that
indomitable philosopher, Captain Wagstaffe, as he doubled stolidly
rearward behind his Company, "there is no denying his bravery as a
soldier or his skill in co-ordinating an attack. It's positively
uncanny, the way his artillery supports his infantry. (Hallo, that was
a near one!) This enfilade fire from the Fosse is most unpleasant. (I
fancy that one went through my kilt.) Steady there, on the left:
don't bunch, whatever you do! Thank heaven, there's the next line of
trenches, fully manned. And thank God, there's that boy Bobby tumbling
in unhurt!"
V
So ended our share in the Big Push. It was a very small episode,
spread over quite a short period, in one of the biggest and longest
battles in the history of the world. It would have been easy to select
a more showy episode, but hard to find a better illustration of the
character of the men who took part in it. The battle which began upon
that grey September morning has been raging, as I write, for nearly
three weeks. It still surges backwards and forwards over the same
stricken mile of ground; and the end is not yet. But the Hun is being
steadily beaten to earth. (Only yesterday, in one brief furious
counter-attack, he lost eight thousand killed.) When the final advance
comes, as come it must, and our victorious line sweeps forward, it
will pass over two narrow, ill-constructed, shell-torn trenches.
In and around those trenches will be found the earthly remains of
men--Jocks and Jimmies, and Sandies and Andies--clad in the uniform
of almost every Scottish regiment. That assemblage of mute, glorious
witnesses marks the point reached, during the first few hours of the
first day's fighting, by the Scottish Division of "K(1)." _Molliter
ossa cubent_.
There is little more to add to the record of those three days. For yet
another night we carried on--repelling counter-attacks, securing
the Hohenzollern, making sorties out of Big Willie, or manning the
original front line parapet against eventualities. As is inevitable in
a fight of these proportions, whole brigades were mingled together,
and unexpected leaders arose to take the place of those who had
fallen. Many a stout piece of work was done that night by mixed bands
of kilties, flat-heads, and even cyclists, marshalled in a captured
German trench and shepherded by a junior subaltern.
Finally, about midnight, came the blessed order that fresh troops were
coming up to continue the attack, and that we were to be extricated
from the _mêlée_ and sent back to rest. And so, after a participation
in the battle of some seventy-two hours, our battered Division came
out--to sleep the sleep of utter exhaustion in dug-outs behind the
railway line, and to receive, upon waking, the thanks of its Corps
Commander.