TOWARDS PERONNE
We passed through Lamotte-en-Santerre, a village in complete ruin
like all other villages on the road eastwards from Amiens. The road
to Hamel branches off here, and we were shown the place from a
distance, Hamel, where the Australians fought side by side with the
Americans and came to know the worth of the New Allies which had
entered the war.
The Australians often speak of the Americans. The former are very
proud of the fact that the Yankees on their first attack were
attached to the Diggers, and the soldiers of both countries fought
shoulder to shoulder in the fight for Hamel. This was on the fourth
of July, "some Fourth," as the Americans say. The Americans lived
among the Australians for some days, and in that short space of time
they came to know them as if they were their own countrymen.
When the attack was on the Americans fought splendidly. Merged in the
larger Australian command and vieing with the war-hardened Diggers
in the stress and dash of the conflict they went forward as if for a
race, determined to stick through it in thick and thin and not let
their new friends down. Prior to the attack the officer in command of
the Americans told them that they were going into action with some
of the world's best fighting men, that it was an honour to battle
in such company and they must show themselves worthy of it, for the
credit of the United States was in their keeping.
In the fighting that ensued they showed themselves worthy of their
new mates, attempted feats almost impossible and accomplished
superhuman deeds. The Australians are loud in their admiration of the
Americans and consider the Yankees as soldiers of muscle and mettle
second to none.
In the Hamel attack they were not to be held back, and that their
casualties were heavy in the fighting was to a great measure due to
the Yankees' hurry to get forward, and rush ahead under the shells of
their own barrage to get on the neck of the enemy.
The tanks helped greatly in this operation, and even now, in a time
when the great events of the morning are so often forgotten in
the greater events of the night, the Australians still speak with
enthusiasm of the work done by the steeled mastodons of war in the
attack on Hamel.
Germans surrendered readily in most places here, but at one or two
points nests of machine guns evaded the vigilance of the tanks and
kept up a harrowing fire on the attackers. It was a case then of
rushing the positions with the bayonet, and the Australians went
forward in their grand, audacious manner, fighting every yard of the
way. The still bodies lying on the field afterwards testified to the
struggle which had taken place. And the Americans proved their worth,
fighting in such a manner that the Australians were quick to regard
them with admiration and look upon them as great soldiers.
"Great fighters, but damned bad moppers-up!"
This, in one terse sentence, was an Australian soldier's opinion of
the American soldiery. This Australian was a man who had fought side
by side with Americans, and who gloried in the fact. He had seen
them dash forward at Hamel when that part of the Western Front was
captured; he had joined them in the affair, and was proud to fight
alongside of them. He had also taken part in the fighting north of
St. Quentin when the American troops went forth at the tail of a
mighty barrage to attack the Hindenburg line.
The "Diggers" have a great fellow-feeling for the "Doughboys," whom
they consider to be very much like themselves in thought and outlook.
The Diggers, having fought with their splendid American comrades,
dared the tremendous task of war under the same barrage and shared
the same risks and dangers on the field, have come to know the new
Ally, and that knowledge is filled with appreciation.
The Americans are great fighters, they will tell you, and add as an
afterthought that they are "bad moppers-up."
"Mopping-up" is practically a new operation in battle, and if
not altogether new it has come into great prominence in this war,
especially when the enemy is retreating. The track of the flying
Boche is a track of snares, pitfalls, toils, traps, hidden mines and
all manner of treacherous contrivances which a cunning enemy can lay
to kill his pursuers. The dug-out may conceal a machine gun, the
apparently dead may be waiting for a chance to fire at the troops
which have passed him by, the elbow of trench may conceal a sniper,
so all suspicious objects have to be examined before being crossed
over.
But the Americans, I understand, don't waste time in dealing with
little affairs like these. Full of the call of battle they rush
forward to get right into the thick of the struggle. Their business
is in front where the fighting is hardest, and they do not care to
linger in dug-outs and trenches apparently disbanded and deserted.
"They're bad moppers-up," the Australian repeated. "But they're great
fighters, these Yanks."
It was in this district near Hamel that heavy fighting took place
last summer, when the grass and self-sown crops stood high on the
field of battle. Here the Australians adopted a certain kind of
guerilla warfare, which kept the Germans in continual suspense and
which greatly helped the forward penetration of the attackers. For
certain periods no direct frontal attack was opened in force, but
during the time the Diggers did not remain inactive. Patrols stole
out through the long grass, crawling to certain localities occupied
by the Boche, sunken roads, valleys, shell-holes and ruins of
farmhouses. Here at various points were many encounters in which bomb
and bayonet were used and in this way many nests were cleared of the
enemy. Platoons and squads adopted these tactics on their own bent,
stealing ground bit by bit from the Germans. Even solitary soldiers,
working on their own initiative, did a lot towards chasing the enemy
back. Stories of deeds accomplished by Diggers, the capturing of
dug-outs, the rushing of machine-gun positions are spoken of, but
as the Australian is one of the most modest of men, many stories of
desperate deeds and high enterprise will never be known beyond the
limits of camp and the field of war.
At various points along the route the officer conducting our party
told us of various incidents, comic and sublime, which had taken
place on the wide field of the Somme. Here it was the story of
a one-armed Captain who went into an attack at the head of his
platoon, carrying only a walking stick. Leading his men on the tail
of a barrage and holding them back when they pressed too close to
the bursting shells, he regulated the line with his stick like the
conductor of an orchestra.
Again it was the story of a machine gun, untouched by the barrage,
resuming firing when the first wave of Australian attackers almost
reached it. A machine gun is a vicious little weapon, and the
Australians had to fling themselves flat to avoid being cut to
pieces. Then three men, a sergeant, a corporal and a private, rushed
the gun from the flank, bayoneted the gunners and captured the gun.
This prompt manœuvre, planned and executed in the space of time
necessary for the lighting of a cigarette, saved many lives.
Another story was of a crew of desperate Germans who brought a
machine gun into the open and fired through the barrage on the
Diggers. The Australians saw the gun, and a company commander
without a moment's hesitation turned to two of his sergeants and put
the trite question: "Are you game?" The sergeants, who were game,
nodded, and without further ado the three men rushed through the
bursting shells on the gun. Bullets hissed past their ears, flying
shrapnel splinters wounded them, but with impetuous dash and sublime
indifference to death they swept on the gun crew and destroyed it.
Later one of the sergeants died of his wounds; the officer, with his
shoulder badly torn, continued to lead his men and stayed with them
all the next day through a heavy bombardment.
Again we were told of a private, whose crime sheet spoke of
innumerable petty delinquencies. This man, when his platoon officer
became a casualty and the non-commissioned officers fell, led the
way to a trench where the Germans were stoutly resisting, and with
bomb and bayonet drove the Germans back. Hand-to-hand fighting
of the stiffest nature took place, and this private killed at
least twenty-five of the enemy before they were routed. Having
accomplished this herculean task he led the Diggers to the objective
line, organized and took charge of it for the two days following.
Then there are many other stories of men, eager and exultant at the
prospect of making an attack and getting into grips with the enemy.
There was a certain private who had been detailed for a soft job at
the baths in the back area. On hearing that his battalion was going
to attack he absented himself from his post without leave, joined
his regiment and took part in the attack. Another man, a corporal of
the same battalion, was away at some training school, did the same,
but by ill-luck he arrived late and joined his men the day after the
battle.
"On the day when we attacked on that ridge across there an officer
of the infantry came in an aeroplane to take part in the attack,"
said the driver of the car when we came to a momentary stop on the
St. Quentin road. He pointed his finger towards a bluff that rose
from the Somme and stood a little higher than the country round it.
"He was an officer, hit on the head by a splinter of shell a few
days before the attack, and sent to hospital at the base," said the
driver. "Word that his battalion was going to cross the bags reached
him, and he implored permission to return, as his wound was healed.
But the doctors wouldn't allow him to go. On being told this he went
to a mate of his, an airman who was flying towards the front, and
asked for a lift. He was given a lift, and got in touch with his
battalion in time to get into the attack."
Isolated incidents like these show the temper of the men, their
desire to be in the midst of the fighting, the devotion and
enthusiasm of soldiers who have crossed miles of sea to do their bit
in the great war which has tortured Europe for so many years. Of her
record in the war Australia may well be proud.
THE KHAKI LADS
Along the road in the evening the brown battalions wind,
With the trenches' threat of death in front, the peaceful
homes behind;
And luck is with them or luck is not, as the tickets of Fate
are drawn--
The boys go up to the trench at dusk, but who will come back
at dawn?
The winds come soft of an evening o'er the fields of golden grain,
And good sharp scythes will cut the corn ere we come back again--
The village girls will tend the grain and mill the Autumn yield,
While we go forth to other work upon another field.
They'll cook the big brown Flemish loaves and tend the oven fire,
And while they do the daily toil of barn and bench and byre
They'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain
The billet boys, the khaki lads who won't return again.