DEATH VALLEY
MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. ---- BATTALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN
POSSESSION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM
The final preparations completed, the first platoon began to move off;
other platoons followed at intervals, the column slowly wending its
way through the Valley of Death to its mysterious destination.
We seemed to be going into the unknown; the air was full of mystery;
it was uncanny, unnatural. We were moving over battle-fields. The
ground was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be made by
walking in single file along a narrow footpath, which twisted in
tortuous persistency between the shell-holes, causing innumerable
halts and starts, until the column tailed off into an endless line of
shadowy figures.
Here and there the men became lost to view in some gun-ridden cavity;
whilst there again they appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky,
as man by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in
the ground.
Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week
lay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the
heavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death.
There are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and
the irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to
brave a similar fate.
The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that
long, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay
side by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line
where the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a
devil's vengeance.
As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless
and torn, some half buried in debris--here and there lying doubled in
unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some
mortal wound--I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of
Dante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far
more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.
After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to
occupy, and, to our intense relief, the ---- Battalion, London
Regiment, were in possession.
After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the
line of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final
word with one of the ---- officers:
"How many casualties?" I asked.
"About fifty in two days--bit tough, eh?"
"Been attacked, then?"
"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely."
"Where's the Boche?"
"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away
there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about
three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the
lower end extending into the wood."
"Fritz there?"
"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery.
The part that extends into the wood the ---- Regiment are holding; but
the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think.
Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!"
After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a
view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land,
with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly
emerged, house by house, from the rising mist.
In the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the
hand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army.
There, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in
the shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those
peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the
remains of a copse which had been shelled until only the stumps of a
few trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of
it anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was
puzzling.
I went over to consult the French officer on my right:
"Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a smart young officer.
"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the ---- Battalion, London Regiment,
already--yes?"
"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there;
they are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?"
"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that
farm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that
farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine."
I went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If
Falfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I
stand? Whew! I was getting the wind up.