THE ATTACK
A DESPERATE SITUATION. BATTLE FORMATION. "FOR ENGLAND"
Joy! The last leap I took landed me in a trench, and I found to my
great relief that it was the lower part of the square which ran
through the wood. A few yards along this trench it emerged into the
open, where it was in possession of the Germans.
Farman and I sat down, side by side, breathing heavily from our
exertions.
"That was hell, Farman," I said, hardly daring to trust my voice.
"Awful!"
"I hope the men are still following."
"Those that are left."
"Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to see us smoking."
"Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone."
"Save your water; we've still got the attack to do. We've got an hour
yet; that will give the men time to recover."
By this time, one by one, the men began to jump into the trench. As
the men arrived, their faces pale and eyes started, we called them by
name. They looked up and smiled with relief at seeing us sitting
there, side by side. They recognised that the last jump had been made,
and for the time being, at any rate, they were safe.
We had started through the wood, about one hundred and thirty strong,
and barely eighty mustered for the final attack.
Some men of C Company appeared, threading their way along the trench.
Farther in the wood, the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to
arrange details for the attack.
"You got your new orders in time, then," I remarked.
"Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost heavily already, and
we've still got to go over the top."
"I've got orders to take half the battalion bombers from you; where
are they?"
"I would like to keep them; there are not many left, and they are
badly broken up--been fighting all night."
"All right, you keep them. I'm going to form up between here and that
broken tree. Will you form up farther to the left?"
"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap."
"Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!"
I never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell,
riddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the
subsequent attack.
"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," I ordered, wishing to
ascertain if the last platoon had arrived.
A young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted.
"I am in command, sir."
His tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the
danger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride
at finding himself in command of the platoon.
"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked.
"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the chest. The last I saw of
him he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle."
"All right; do you understand your orders?"
"Yes, sir, quite."
"Return to your platoon, and await orders to form up."
He saluted and doubled back to his men. I forget his name, but he was
a fine fellow, that sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at his
new responsibility.
So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; very young, only about
twenty; good company in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him
to give his water-bottle to some one else when he could go no farther.
Farman was my only subaltern left. Suddenly he gripped my arm and
pointed into the wood:
"Look over there. Who are those fellows creeping along that trench?"
I looked in the direction he was pointing, and there, to my
astonishment, on the very ground just vacated by C Company, about a
dozen figures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow trench. I
thought at first they were coming in to surrender; but they made no
signs, but were evidently making the best of cover.
What were they up to? There were only about 12 of them, and I had
between 70 and 80 men. For such a small number to come out alone and
attack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expecting them to throw up
their hands and come in. Perhaps they thought they had not been seen.
I picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the last man but one; I
missed.
Still they kept creeping on. I fired a second time at the same man,
and he dropped. The thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bobbing
along a trench; I felt for a moment as though I were shooting rabbits.
The next moment I realised their object. By this time they had worked
well round my flanks. They were evidently a few daring men, who were
trying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention of throwing bombs
while we were in a congested area, occupied in forming up for the
attack. A daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men throwing
bombs at close quarters could wipe us off the map, or, at any rate,
could do enough damage by shock action of this kind to prevent our
attack starting.
I dared not give any order to fire for fear of hitting the men of C
Company. The situation was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero
hour was close at hand. The same thoughts were running through
Farman's mind.
"Shall I have a go at them?" he said.
"Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them with the bayonet; then join
the attack as a fourth wave."
I watched Farman and his platoon with bayonets fixed, creeping on all
fours towards the German bombers. That was the last I saw of them, as
it was within 10 minutes of zero hour, and we were not yet in battle
formation.
I heard afterwards that they did the job well. But to part with the
platoon and my only remaining officer at this critical moment was a
great loss to me; for I could not count upon them in the attack for
which I had now only three platoons left--about sixty men.
Half my strength had gone, and the real attack had not yet begun. I
sent for the remaining platoon commanders and explained the
situation:
"No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. Form up and extend
along the edge of the wood and await my signal to advance into the
open. No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; and No. 8 Platoon,
assemble in the trench close up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed
along the trench parallel with the advance, bombing it out as they go
along."
The men formed up. The minutes seemed to be like hours. We were facing
the inside of the square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, and
as though anticipating our intention, shells were bursting and bullets
whistling on all sides.
How peaceful England must be at this moment; how pretty the villages!
And how wicked this hell seemed in front of us! And these were the men
of England--nice chaps, only Territorials.
One used to meet them in the city every day. Some were awful nuts. See
them at lunch; watch them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station
between 9 and 10 o'clock in the morning, with newspaper and
walking-stick; see them in the banks, bending over ledgers. You could
hardly believe it; but these were the same men.
They were not very trim just now; their hands are grimy as they clutch
at their rifles, undaunted by the terrors they have already passed
through and the sight of their fallen comrades left groaning in the
wood.
There they are, extended and lying flat on the ground, waiting further
orders. They have come through one hell by the skin of their teeth,
and are patiently looking into another hell; their lives were counted
by minutes, these office men. But their eyes were fixed on the far
side of the square trench which was to be their objective; unless by
God's will, and for the sake of England, they found an earlier one.
London men! Some may call you "only Territorials." Training has been
your hobby; but fighting was never your profession.
What will England think of this? England may never know.
Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before? If a man is killed in England
there is an inquest. People read about it in the papers.
Are the people left behind in England suffering hardships
uncomplainingly, and gritting their teeth like you are? You are only
getting a bob a day. England needs you; you are masters. Why don't
you strike at this critical moment?
No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. You are men! There are
those in England this day who work for England's cause; there are
others who are enriching themselves by your absence; there are homes
which will feel your sacrifice.
You have seen the wasted homes and the ghastly outrages in France; and
between that picture and the green fields of England you must make
your stand; those in England will depend upon you this day.
Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and death are within a few
yards of you. There will be no pictures of your deeds; there are no
flags or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the dirty ground on
the edge of Leuze Wood, with hell in front of you, and hell behind
you--hell in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches on the
right.
One more minute and you will stand up and walk into it. My lads! It's
for England!