portion of the sunken road, and regained the bit of ground for which
the enemy had paid so high a price in blood.
To-day there was a blue sky again over the battlefields, and the
sunlight lay over the ghastly ruin of all those villages and woodlands.
A great day for the gunners, O God!... They made the most of it, and
I watched the bombardment piling up the columns of smoke and earth
between Thiépval and High Wood, and a fierce German barrage between
Mametz Wood and the Bazentins.
Heavy crumps were bursting also away back by Contalmaison, and once the
Virgin of Albert was hidden in a smoke-cloud which rose from the ruins
about it.
The sun gleamed on all our kite balloons hastening forward in the blue
to watch the enemy’s lines. They were dazzling white, these “Ruperts”
of the sky, and above and about them flashed our battle-planes going
over the enemy’s country.
Ceaselessly the infernal clangour of great guns banged over the hills,
and the shells went whining overhead. The enemy was getting the worst
of it, if I could judge from the greater weight of our bombardment, but
his guns were also hard at work, at long range beyond Grandcourt and
Flers. He flung out a quantity of gas-shells—and the sun shone down
upon all these little busy ways of men, and the fields were flooded
with a golden light.
XXVI
THE AUSTRALIANS AT MOUQUET FARM
1
SEPTEMBER 3
To-day, Sunday, September 3, many of our troops have been engaged in
hard fighting.
The main facts of these battles will be told officially before what I
have to write is published—the capture of Guillemont, the advance at
least as far as half-way through the village of Ginchy, the taking of
ground eastwards beyond Mouquet Farm—and put even as briefly as that it
will be known by people at home that our men have again gone forward in
a great attack and fought tremendously.
Again all this countryside above the Somme has been filled with those
scenes of war which I have described so often since that morning of
July 1, when we began the great attack, pictures of a day of battle,
when many troops are engaged, and when the power of our artillery is
concentrated in a tremendous endeavour—stabs of fire from the muzzles
of many guns, smoke-clouds rising above the ridges of the hills and
lying dense in the valleys, the bloody trail of the walking wounded,
groups of prisoners tramping down, ambulance convoys swirling through
quiet lanes, bandaged men in casualty-clearing stations or sitting
in harvest-fields behind the lines waiting for the Red Cross trains,
guns going up, ammunition columns crawling forward, transport, mules,
motor-cars, field-guns, troops—everywhere the movement of a great day
of war.
2
Looking back on to-day’s battle pictures two of them rise before me now
as I write, most vividly. One of them was just a smoke picture as I
stared down into the boiling heart of its cauldron this morning. I was
in an artillery observation post, from which on ordinary days one may
see each shell burst above the ruins of Thiépval and the ragged trees
of its woods and the broken row of apple-trees, and a charred stick or
two of Mouquet Farm, and beyond, very clearly on the ridge, the conical
base of the windmill above Pozières.
To-day one could see nothing of this. Nothing at all but a hurly-burly
of smoke, black rising in columns through white, white floating through
and above black, and all moving and writhing. That was where our men
were fighting.
That was all the picture of this struggle, just smoke and mist.
Thousands of shells were bursting there, but one could see no separate
shell burst; no single human figure dodging death or meeting it. So I
stood and stared and listened. It was like a world in conflict.
The noise of the guns was tense. The hammer-strokes of each explosion
met each other stroke, and gave out an enormous clangour. Dante looking
down into Inferno may have seen something like this, and would not have
heard such a noise. It was most like the spirit of war of anything I
have seen, and I have seen men go forward and fall, and watched their
single adventures.
The other picture was more human and less frightful, though sad and
tragic and wonderful. It was a field behind the battle lines, into
which the “walking wounded” first came down after their escape from
those fires further up. It was a harvest-field with rows of neat corn
stooks near a wood in heavy foliage, in spite of shells which came from
time to time to break the branches. Some wounded men lay about on the
stubble. Others came limping between the corn stooks, with their arms
about the necks of stronger comrades.
Horse ambulances halted by the side of the road, and groups of Red
Cross men ran forward and brought back very slowly stretchers heavily
laden with human bundles, who were laid by the side of those who could
sit up with their backs to the wheatsheaves. Many of the men’s faces
were caked with blood. There was every kind of wound except the worst.
But men with bandaged heads called out to others who came with their
arms in slings, and men gone lame gossiped with men whose jackets had
been cut away at the shoulder—and I saw again the wonder that one
always sees after battle, which is the cheerfulness of men who are not
too far gone to hide their pain, the courage of the British soldier,
which is sublime.
There were a few men there from whom one’s eyes played the coward, but
it was good to see the happiness of those who had come out of the zone
of death into this harvest-field, where there was safety except for
chance shells. Guns were firing all round them. But they were our guns.
These men were the heroes of a great day of battle, and they had been
touched by fire, but had not been burnt in the furnaces to which they
had gone before the dawn. They had had all the luck.
3
It is too soon to tell the story of this day. Our men are still
fighting as the sun goes down this evening with a red glow in the sky
after a sharp burst of rain. In those wet and broken ditches, which
we call trenches, north-east beyond Mouquet Farm, and on the right by
Guillemont, the enemy is still being routed out of shell-craters and
trying to rally to counter-attacks, and the German guns are flinging
out barrages to drive our men back if they can. At this hour, when all
is confused and uncertain except the main facts that we have taken
Guillemont and part of Ginchy, and far beyond Mouquet, with great news
from the French on our right—the capture of Clery and 1500 prisoners—I
can give only a few glimpses of the incidents of all this fighting.
On the left our attack was made on the German lines north and south
of the Ancre. Our troops went over their parapets this morning almost
before the first glimmer of dawn had lightened the sky. They could
only see the ground immediately before them, and it was, of course,
pitted with shell-craters, old and new. The new craters had just been
made by our hurricane bombardment, which had laid the enemy’s parapets
in shapeless ruin, killing a great number of Germans in what had been
their trenches. Their light signals called to their gunners, and at
the very instant our men came into the open an accurate barrage swept
our lines. But the men were away, and as far as I heard from them this
morning, the line on the left did not suffer uncommonly in the scramble
across No Man’s Land.
A number of them forced their way into and through the enemy’s first
and second lines, bayoneting the Germans who tried to resist them,
and clearing the ground of strong snipers and machine-gunners. They
fought—these English country fellows—in heroic style to the south of
the river. The enemy’s machine-gunners played an enfilade fire upon
the successful troops across the Ancre, and the enemy’s artillery was
able to concentrate on this ground. Ours held on to the German second
line against this overwhelming fire with a most stubborn endurance, but
afterwards when a body of Prussians advanced to a counter-attack drew
back to get into line again with the men on their right, south of the
river.
“It was the shell-fire which made our position untenable,” said one
of the officers who had been fighting here. “But in any case we put a
large number of Boches out of action, and that is always worth doing,
and brings the end of the war a little closer.”
4
Much more lucky and valuable was the advance made by Australian troops
upon Mouquet Farm. These men knew the ground intimately, and had
already penetrated the ruins of the farm by a strong patrol, which went
in and out some days ago, bringing back some prisoners, as I described
at the time. They were confident that they could do the same thing
again, though the site of the farm might be difficult to hold against
hostile fire. Our guns did not fail them this morning.
One of these clean-cut Australian boys with those fine, steady,
truth-telling eyes which look so straight at one even after a
nerve-breaking ordeal of fire, told me to-day that the bombardment
preceding their attack was the greatest thing he has ever heard, though
he has fought under many of them hereabouts.
“Our shells rushed over us,” he said, “with a strange, loud ringing
noise which pierced one’s ear-drums with a violent vibration. It was
just marvellous.” But the enemy’s guns were powerful, too, and he
replied tremendously as soon as our own “lifted” and lengthened their
fuses.
The way across No Man’s Land, which was about 200 yards, I think, was a
passage perilous. There was no level ground anywhere, not a foot of it.
It was all shell-holes. Our men fell in and scrambled out and fell in
again. Some of the holes were full of water and mud, and men plunged up
to their armpits and were bogged.
There was nothing in the way of trenches to take. The Germans were
holding lines of shell-craters. In these deep pits they had fixed
their machine-guns, and were scattered all about in isolated groups,
with little stores of bombs, and rifles kept dry, somehow. It was
extraordinarily difficult to attack such a position because there was
no definite line.
The Australians found themselves sniped by machine-guns—horrible
little spasms of bullets—from unknown quarters, to the right and left,
even behind them. By the time the line of Mouquet Farm was reached the
battle was broken up into a number of separate encounters between small
parties of Australians and small parties of Prussians.
There were bombing duels between one man and another over a shell-hole.
Prussians sniped Australians and Australians Prussians at short range
from the cover of craters.
But in spite of all this hugger-mugger fighting the Australians pushed
forward, and advanced parties went into Mouquet Farm and 200 yards
beyond it on the other side. Mouquet Farm—or “Moo-cow” and “Muckie”
Farm, as it is variously called—only exists as a name. Of the farm
buildings there is nothing left but some blackened beams no higher than
one of the Australian boys.
The enemy, however, had his usual dug-outs here, tunnelled deep and
strongly protected with timbers and cement. Into one of these went a
group of Australians, ready for a fight, and surprised to find the
place empty of human life. It was quiet there out of the shell-fire,
and it was pleasant to be in the cool dark room, away from the battle.
The men searched about and found cigars, which they lit and smoked.
“Good work!” said a boy.
As he spoke the words there was a scuttle of feet and dark figures
appeared in the entrance way. They were Germans, and an officer among
them said: “Surrender!” “Surrender be damned!” shouted the Australians.
“Surrender yourselves.”
Bombs were flung on both sides, but other Australians came up, and it
was the Germans who surrendered. I saw one of them to-day, sitting
on the grass and smoking a pipe among some of his comrades, who lay
wounded among the men who had helped to capture them.
Other dug-outs were being searched, and other prisoners were taken—how
many is still uncertain. But what is quite certain is that the
Australians have taken ground beyond Mouquet Farm to the east and
defeated Germany’s best troops—the 1st regiment of the Prussian Guards
reserve.
They were sturdy and fine-looking men, as I saw some of them to-day,
and they did not hide their joy at being alive and well treated as
wounded prisoners. One of them spoke quite freely, and answered all
questions put to him, though with what truth it is difficult to judge.
I think he told the truth, according to the knowledge that had been
given to him and the lessons taught him by his warlords. One of his
most startling statements, which he made quite definitely, is that the
German Emperor has issued a proclamation to his troops, declaring that
there will be no winter campaign.
With regard to the coming in of Rumania, he said that it did not
surprise them, as they had expected it for a long time. “It will make
no difference to the real war,” he said. He disclaimed that there was
any shortage of food in Germany, and, as for the soldiers, said: “At
least the Prussian Guards feed well. I had two eggs for breakfast.”
“It is the same with all our men.” In the captured districts of France
the French people, he says, live on good terms with the Prussian
soldiers, but do not like the Bavarians, who are rude fellows. “They
were glad to see us back from Russia,” he added.
They seem to have been brought back hurriedly from Russia to resist our
offensive, and one man to whom I spoke a few words—a house painter in
Berlin in days of peace—told me that he had only been here in France
since the early days of July. He said that the war was far worse in
France than in Russia, because of the intensity of artillery fire. “We
are weary of it all,” he said. “Our people are weary of it. The world
is weary of it.”
“And you are glad to be out of it?” I asked.
He smiled, and said, “It is good to be here.”
The Australians were giving their tobacco to these men, and there
was no sign of hatred between them. It seems that the Prussian
Guard behaved well to-day with regard to the wounded and the
stretcher-bearers. After the battle the bearers went out all across No
Man’s Land to rescue the wounded and we allowed the same privilege to
the enemy, so that parties of Germans and British came close to each
other in this work of rescue, and there was no sniping.
With regard to the Guillemont fighting, I can write very little as
the battle there began only at mid-day, and I could not get in that
direction. But I learn that in co-operation with the French, who were
advancing magnificently from the south, and who had linked up with us
near Angle Wood, our troops fought their way forward from Arrow Head
Copse by way of a maze of little saps which had been dug all about
here. They went straight through Guillemont, knocking out machine-gun
posts and clearing out dug-outs, and established themselves on the
Sunken Road from Ginchy. The Prussian Guard put up a big fight near
Falfemont Farm, but suffered great losses. The other German regiments
against us were the 73rd, 76th, and 164th.
Fighting still goes on, and the exact issue is uncertain, but at the
end of this Sunday the advantage of the day lies with us, and the enemy
has submitted to heavy blows.
XXVII
THE CAPTURE OF GUILLEMONT
1
SEPTEMBER 4
In my despatch yesterday describing the very heavy fighting at several
parts of the line, I was unable to give sufficient prominence to the
greatest success of the day, and one of the best achievements since the
beginning of the Battle of the Somme.
That we hold Guillemont safely and surely I had the luck to see for
myself to-day when from neighbouring trenches I looked into the ruin
of the place—strangely quiet this afternoon apart from a few German
“crumps”—and saw that our men were holding the Sunken Road 500 yards
further on before they made an attack which has given us Wedge Wood and
ground to the north of Falfemont Farm.
Yesterday’s attack at mid-day was wonderfully good. Our men went
forward steadily in waves after a hurricane fire from a great mass of
British guns. By some curious chance the enemy does not seem to have
expected an attack at the exact hour it happened. They may have thought
that they had baulked it by their own bombardment on our lines and
behind them when they flung over 10,000 gas shells, whose poisonous
vapour floated over the ground for hours. They know now to their cost
that they did not thwart the advance of our troops.
The enemy’s machine-guns swept the ground with a rush of bullets, but
our men took cover as much as possible in the dips and hollows of
the earth—chaotic after long weeks of shelling—and came along quite
quickly to the outskirts of the ruined village. A quarry there, in the
centre of the western edge, had been entered and held for a day to two
by British troops, but it was no longer in our hands, and had to be
retaken. On the edge of the village also, on the western and southern
sides, the Germans had built their best dug-outs, months ago, before
our guns concentrated their fire here, so that they had plenty of time
to build them deep and build them strong, to panel them, and roof them
with concrete, and to furnish them comfortably, and to decorate them
with pictures from German newspapers and postcards from home.
Our assaulting troops were in and about those dug-outs in the first
wave, and halted here to see that no enemies should remain in hiding
to attack them from the rear. Underground there was not much fighting.
A few proud men refused to surrender, or did not surrender quickly
enough. Most of them gave themselves up easily and gave no trouble in
being marshalled back, so that something like 600 men belonging to the
finest German troops are now behind our lines—out of it for good, and
rejoicing in their luck of life.
Half an hour afterwards, joined by supporting troops, the British line
advanced to the Sunken Road, where other German soldiers were captured,
and found here a fine defensive position all ready for them, after a
little work in reorganising the shelter.
From that point a number of men went forward again to an attack on
Falfemont Farm, but this was too far for one day’s work, and they were
held on the outskirts of the wood—poor wood of strafed trees!—by an
immediate counter-attack from the Prussian Guard. For one of the rare
times in this war the Germans faced British bayonets, and stood to
their ground so stoutly that they were able to maintain their position.
So the battle ended yesterday with the capture of Guillemont, which was
good enough, and our line strongly entrenched along the Sunken Road.
2
To-day I saw another attack upon Falfemont Farm and our capture of the
Wedge Wood. Everywhere along the way which leads to the country between
Hardecourt and Maurepas there is a great desolation.
The Sunken Road led down from Guillemont to Wedge Wood in the hollow.
British soldiers held the Sunken Road, Germans were in Wedge Wood.
Striking up from that small solitary copse of naked sticks were two
white chalky trenches in an obtuse angle with the apex nearest to
Wedge Wood and the broad base up the sloping ground towards Leuze Wood
on the ridge above. And half way down the slope to the right of the
triangle-trenches, was Falfemont Farm, without a sign of a farm, but
marked by a number of tree stems stuck up like telephone poles.
A little after three o’clock in the afternoon I saw our men in the
open. They came up suddenly, as though by a spellword, along the line
of the Sunken Road and southwards below Falfemont Farm, advancing
northwards to that place.
The men advanced in waves. I saw the left waves surging down into Wedge
Wood. Some of them wavered a little, then fell. Groups fell, not dead
or wounded, but getting below the stream of bullets yard-high over the
ground. The small copse was soon crowded with British soldiers. They
seemed to be in a kind of scrimmage, and out of the middle of it came
presently a compact little body of men.
“German prisoners, right enough—and well done!” said an officer by my
side.
I followed the advance of the southern waves towards Falfemont Farm.
They went on slowly and steadily, and had a long way to go. It seemed
to me a frightful long way. But they crept up nearer and nearer to the
edge of the bare poles which were once a wood. Then some of them fell,
and disappeared, into shell-craters and broken trenches. New waves
came up and disappeared also, as though lying, or dead, in the tall
thistles. After a little while I saw that many of them had reappeared
to the left. They were working up towards the German triangle-trenches
on the slope of the spur, striking down from Leuze Wood.
In a few minutes two figures appeared black against the white chalk of
the first trench, and presently they were lost in it. But not for long.
Groups of them were up again, marshalling another group which seemed
separated from them and then moved back towards Wedge Wood. I guessed
they were more German prisoners, but could not see the difference
between grey and khaki.
“Hullo, they’ve got the second trench!” said another man by my side.
It was some time after two, while I was watching the confused groups
of men, that strange things began to happen in the German lines. From
Leuze Wood parties of men came running down to Falfemont Farm.
“By the Lord!” said an officer. “A German counter-attack.... Get it
over the telephone, quick. A good target for the guns.”
It was a wonderful target. The Prussian Guardsmen came forward, not
in open order, but shoulder to shoulder. They made a serpentine line
across the ground, advancing steadily and not slowly towards our
troops. They looked very tall men, and their figures were quite black
against the chalky earth. Then suddenly the right end of the line
crumbled away. Gaps opened in the thick bar of men. Our machine-guns
were raking them. I listened to the swish-swish of the fire, like a
flame blown in the wind. Then, like a row of ninepins on uneven ground,
the Prussian Guards all fell face forwards. The unwounded men had
fallen with the wounded to escape our bullets.
“Counter-attack repulsed!” said a voice near the telephonist.
Twenty minutes later, if I remember accurately, another German
counter-attack was organised in exactly the same way, by parties of
men coming down from Leuze Wood. But this was also broken up by our
machine-gun fire.
3
SEPTEMBER 5
My last despatch describing the capture of Wedge Wood and the attack
on Falfemont Farm left off like a serial story at a moment of exciting
uncertainty. It was impossible for me to tell whether our men had
actually taken possession of the farm—that plantation of “strafed”
trees to the south of Leuze Wood—and the meaning of all that coming and
going of groups and individuals to the west and north of it, after the
second German counter-attack had failed.
Now the tangled web of the plot—not spun by imagination but as real as
death—is straightened out, and the end of another grim little chapter
of the war is the capture of 1,000 yards of the enemy’s front, to the
depth of 1,500 yards, in and around Falfemont Farm, which is now held
by British troops.
It was great fighting which gained this ground, and the men were their
own generals. These West Country lads were not moved like marionettes
pulled by the strings from headquarters. It was after the first orders
had been given a soldiers’ battle, and its success was due to young
officers and N.C.O.’s, and men using their own initiative, finding
another way round when one had failed, and arranging their own tactics
in face of the enemy to suit the situation of the moment.
Such a thing has been done very rarely since the first days of trench
warfare, except in raids over No Man’s Land and bombing fights in such
places as Ovillers and Longueval. Here the individual craft of our men
gained an important position. When the attack on Falfemont Farm was
checked on the south by wicked machine-gun fire our troops worked their
way westwards, and joining other bodies of men advancing from the
Sunken Road beyond Guillemont, crept round the slope of the ground that
goes up to Leuze Wood.