OVER THE TOP
In my second trip to the trenches our officer was making his rounds of
inspection, and we received the cheerful news that at four in the
morning we were to go over the top and take the German front-line
trench. My heart turned to lead. Then the officer carried on with his
instructions. To the best of my memory I recall them as follows: "At
eleven a wiring party will go out in front and cut lanes through our
barbed wire for the passage of troops in the morning. At two o'clock
our artillery will open up with an intense bombardment which will last
until four. Upon the lifting of the barrage, the first of the three
waves will go over." Then he left. Some of the Tommies, first getting
permission from the Sergeant, went into the machine-gunners' dugout,
and wrote letters home, saying that in the morning, they were going
over the top, and also that if the letters reached their destination
it would mean that the writer had been killed.
These letters were turned over to the captain with instructions to
mail same in the event of the writer's being killed. Some of the men
made out their wills in their pay book, under the caption, "will and
last testament."
Then the nerve-racking wait commenced. Every now and then I would
glance at the dial of my wrist-watch and was surprised to see how fast
the minutes passed by. About five minutes to two I got nervous waiting
for our guns to open up. I could not take my eyes from my watch. I
crouched against the parapet and strained my muscles in a death-like
grip upon my rifle. As the hands on my watch showed two o'clock, a
blinding red flare lighted up the sky in our rear, then thunder,
intermixed with a sharp, whistling sound in the air over our heads.
The shells from our guns were speeding on their way toward the German
lines. With one accord the men sprang up on the fire step and looked
over the top in the direction of the German trenches. A line of
bursting shells lighted up No Man's Land. The din was terrific and the
ground trembled. Then, high above our heads we could hear a sighing
moan. Our big boys behind the line had opened up and 9.2's and 15-inch
shells commenced dropping into the German lines. The flash of the guns
behind the lines, the scream of the shells through the air, and the
flare of them, bursting, was a spectacle that put Pain's greatest
display into the shade. The constant pup, pup, of German machine guns
and an occasional rattle of rifle firing gave me the impression of a
huge audience applauding the work of the batteries.
Our eighteen-pounders were destroying the German barbed wire, while
the heavier stuff was demolishing their trenches and bashing in
dugouts or funk-holes.
Then Fritz got busy.
Their shells went screaming overhead, aimed in the direction of the
flares from our batteries. Trench mortars started dropping "Minnies"
in our front line. We clicked several casualties. Then they suddenly
ceased. Our artillery had taped or silenced them.
During the bombardment you could almost read a newspaper in our
trench. Sometimes in the flare of a shell-burst a man's body would be
silhouetted against the parados of the trench and it appeared like a
huge monster. You could hardly hear yourself think. When an order was
to be passed down the trench, you had to yell it, using your hands as
a funnel into the ear of the man sitting next to you on the fire step.
In about twenty minutes a generous rum issue was doled out. After
drinking the rum, which tasted like varnish and sent a shudder through
your frame, you wondered why they made you wait until the lifting of
the barrage before going over. At ten minutes to four, word was passed
down, "Ten minutes to go!" Ten minutes to live! We were shivering all
over. My legs felt as if they were asleep. Then word was passed down:
"First wave get on and near the scaling ladders."
These were small wooden ladders which we had placed against the
parapet to enable us to go over the top on the lifting of the barrage.
"Ladders of Death" we called them, and veritably they were.
Before a charge Tommy is the politest of men. There is never any
pushing or crowding to be first up these ladders. We crouched around
the base of the ladders waiting for the word to go over. I was sick
and faint, and was puffing away at an unlighted fag. Then came the
word, "Three minutes to go; upon the lifting of the barrage and on the
blast of the whistles, 'Over the Top with the Best o' Luck and Give
them Hell.'" The famous phrase of the Western Front. The Jonah phrase
of the Western Front. To Tommy it means if you are lucky enough to
come back, you will be minus an arm or a leg. Tommy hates to be wished
the best of luck; so, when peace is declared, if it ever is, and you
meet a Tommy on the street, just wish him the best of luck and duck
the brick that follows.
I glanced again at my wrist-watch. We all wore them and you could
hardly call us "sissies" for doing so. It was a minute to four. I
could see the hand move to the twelve, then a dead silence. It hurt.
Everyone looked up to see what had happened, but not for long. Sharp
whistle blasts rang out along the trench, and with a cheer the men
scrambled up the ladders. The bullets were cracking overhead, and
occasionally a machine gun would rip and tear the top of the sand bag
parapet. How I got up that ladder I will never know. The first ten
feet out in front was agony. Then we passed through the lanes in our
barbed wire. I knew I was running, but could feel no motion below the
waist. Patches on the ground seemed to float to the rear as if I were
on a treadmill and scenery was rushing past me. The Germans had put a
barrage of shrapnel across No Man's Land, and you could hear the
pieces slap the ground about you.
After I had passed our barbed wire and gotten into No Man's Land, a
Tommy about fifteen feet to my right front turned around and looking
in my direction, put his hand to his mouth and yelled something which
I could not make out on account of the noise from the bursting shells.
Then he coughed, stumbled, pitched forward, and lay still. His body
seemed to float to the rear of me. I could hear sharp cracks in the
air about me. These were caused by passing rifle bullets. Frequently,
to my right and left, little spurts of dirt would rise into the air,
and a ricochet bullet would whine on its way. If a Tommy should see
one of these little spurts in front of him, he would tell the nurse
about it later. The crossing of No Man's Land remains a blank to me.
Men on my right and left would stumble and fall. Some would try to get
up, while others remained huddled and motionless. Then smashed-up
barbed wire came into view and seemed carried on a tide to the rear.
Suddenly, in front of me loomed a bashed-in trench about four feet
wide. Queer-looking forms like mud turtles were scrambling up its
wall. One of these forms seemed to slip and then rolled to the bottom
of the trench. I leaped across this intervening space. The man to my
left seemed to pause in mid-air, then pitched head down into the
German trench. I laughed out loud in my delirium. Upon alighting on
the other side of the trench I came to with a sudden jolt. Right in
front of me loomed a giant form with a rifle which looked about ten
feet long, on the end of which seemed seven bayonets. These flashed in
the air in front of me. Then through my mind flashed the admonition of
our bayonet instructor back in Blighty. He had said, "whenever you get
in a charge and run your bayonet up to the hilt into a German, the
Fritz will fall. Perhaps your rifle will be wrenched from your grasp.
Do not waste time, if the bayonet is fouled in his equipment, by
putting your foot on his stomach and tugging at the rifle to extricate
the bayonet. Simply press the trigger and the bullet will free it." In
my present situation this was fine logic, but for the life of me I
could not remember how he had told me to get my bayonet into the
German. To me, this was the paramount issue. I closed my eyes, and
lunged forward. My rifle was torn from my hands. I must have gotten
the German because he had disappeared. About twenty feet to my left
front was a huge Prussian nearly six feet four inches in height, a
fine specimen of physical manhood. The bayonet from his rifle was
missing, but he clutched the barrel in both hands and was swinging the
butt around his head. I could almost hear the swish of the butt
passing through the air. Three little Tommies were engaged with him.
They looked like pigmies alongside of the Prussian. The Tommy on the
left was gradually circling to the rear of his opponent. It was a
funny sight to see them duck the swinging butt and try to jab him at
the same time. The Tommy nearest me received the butt of the German's
rifle in a smashing blow below the right temple. It smashed his head
like an eggshell. He pitched forward on his side and a convulsive
shudder ran through his body. Meanwhile, the other Tommy had gained
the rear of the Prussian. Suddenly about four inches of bayonet
protruded from the throat of the Prussian soldier, who staggered
forward and fell. I will never forget the look of blank astonishment
that came over his face.
Then something hit me in the left shoulder and my left side went numb.
It felt as if a hot poker was being driven through me. I felt no
pain--just a sort of nervous shock. A bayonet had pierced me from the
rear. I fell backward on the ground, but was not unconscious, because
I could see dim objects moving around me. Then a flash of light in
front of my eyes and unconsciousness. Something had hit me on the
head. I have never found out what it was.
I dreamed I was being tossed about in an open boat on a heaving sea
and opened my eyes. The moon was shining. I was on a stretcher being
carried down one of our communication trenches. At the advanced
first-aid post my wounds were dressed, and then I was put into an
ambulance and sent to one of the base hospitals. The wounds in my
shoulder and head were not serious and in six weeks I had rejoined my
company for service in the front line.