AT ANY COST
OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE FINAL ASSAULT
At last the thunder of our guns towards the German lines confirmed the
hour. Zero hour had arrived; the barrage had begun.
"No. 6 Platoon will advance."
The front line jumped up and walked into the open. Wonderful! Steady
as a rock! The line was perfect.
On the left the front line of C Company has also emerged from the
wood; the bombers of No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery
trench.
The tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed from several parts of the
square, while the crack of rifles increased in intensity.
No. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into the open, followed by the
third wave.
I extended my runners and followed.
What followed next beggars description. As I write these lines my hand
hesitates to describe the hell that was let loose upon those men. No
eye but mine could take in the picture so completely.
Will the world ever know what these men faced and fought
against--these men of the City of London? Not unless I tell it, for I
alone saw all that happened that day; and my hand alone, weak and
incapable though it feels, is the only one that can do it.
Barely had I emerged from the wood with my ten runners when a perfect
hurricane of shells were hurled at us, machine-guns from several
points spraying their deadly fire backward and forward, dropping men
like corn before the reaper. From all three sides of the square a
hurricane of fire was poured into the centre of the square upon us, as
we emerged from the wood.
In far less time than it takes to record it, the attacking waves
became a mere sprinkling of men. They went on for a yard or two, and
then all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom I had extended
into line, were dropping fast.
The situation was critical, desperate. Fearful lest the attack should
fail, I ran forward, and collecting men here and there from
shell-holes where some had taken refuge, I formed them into a fresh
firing-line, and once more we pressed forward.
Again and again the line was thinned; and again the survivors,
undaunted and unbeaten, reformed and pressed forward.
Men laughed, men cried in the desperation of the moment. We were
grappling with death; we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad,
blindly hysterical. What did anything matter? Farther and farther into
the inferno we must press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping,
rushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; and still the fire
continued with unrelenting fury.
I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself within ten yards of my
objective. My three remaining runners jumped in alongside of me. They
were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson.
Arnold was done for! He looked up at me with eyes staring and face
blanched, and panted out that he could go no farther, and I realised
that I could count on him no more.
I glanced to the left, just in time to see three Germans not five
yards away, and one after the other jump from a shell-hole which
formed a sort of bay to their trench, and run away.
Wishing to save the ammunition in my revolver for the hand-to-hand
scuffle which seemed imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired.
I missed all three; my hand was shaky.
What was I to do next? The company on my left had disappeared; the
trench just in front of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with me
three runners, one of whom was helpless, and in the next shell-hole
about six men, the sole survivors of my company.
Where were the supports? Anxiously I glanced back toward the wood; why
did they not come?
Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but the hand of death had
dealt with them even more heavily in the wood than it had with us.
My position was desperate. I could not retire. My orders were
imperative: "You must reach your objective at any cost." I must get
there somehow. But even if we got there, how long could I hope to hold
out with such a handful of men?
Immediate support I must have; I must take risks. I turned to brave
Dobson and Wilkinson:
"Message to the supports: 'Send me two platoons quickly; position
critical.'"
Without a moment's hesitation they jumped up and darted off with the
message which might save the day.
Dobson fell before he had gone two yards; three paces farther on I saw
Wilkinson, the pet of the company, turn suddenly round and fall on the
ground, clutching at his breast. All hope for the supports was gone.
At this moment the bombing section, which by this time had cleared the
mystery trench, arrived on the right of the objective; and to my
delirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench in front of me
running away along the trench.
It was now, or never! We must charge over that strip of land and
finish them with the bayonet. A moment's hesitation and the tables
might again be turned, and all would be lost. The trench in front must
be taken by assault; it must be done. There were six or seven of us
left, and we must do it.
I yelled to the men:
"Get ready to charge, they are running. Come on! Come on!"
I jumped out of the shell-hole, and they followed me. Once again I was
mad. I saw nothing, I heard nothing; I wanted to kill! kill!
Pf--ung!
Oh! My God! I was hit in the head! I was blind!