PREPARING FOR THE BIG PUSH
Rejoining Atwell after the execution I had a hard time trying to keep
my secret from him. I think I must have lost at least ten pounds
worrying over the affair.
Beginning at seven in the evening it was our duty to patrol all
communication and front-line trenches, making note of unusual
occurrences, and arresting anyone who should, to us, appear to be
acting in a suspicious manner. We slept during the day.
Behind the lines there was great activity, supplies and ammunition
pouring in, and long columns of troops constantly passing. We were
preparing for the big offensive, the forerunner of the Battle of the
Somme or "Big Push."
The never-ending stream of men, supplies, ammunition, and guns pouring
into the British lines made a mighty spectacle, one that cannot be
described. It has to be witnessed with your own eyes to appreciate its
vastness.
At our part of the line the influx of supplies never ended. It looked
like a huge snake slowly crawling forward, never a hitch or break, a
wonderful tribute to the system and efficiency of Great Britain's
"contemptible little army" of five millions of men.
Huge fifteen-inch guns snaked along, foot by foot, by powerful steam
tractors. Then a long line of "four point five" batteries, each gun
drawn by six horses, then a couple of "nine point two" howitzers
pulled by immense caterpillar engines.
When one of these caterpillars would pass me with its mighty monster
in tow, a flush of pride would mount to my face, because I could
plainly read on the name plate, "Made in U.S.A.," and I would remember
that if I wore a name plate it would also read, "Made in U.S.A." Then
I would stop to think how thin and straggly that mighty stream would
be if all the "Made in U. S. A." parts of it were withdrawn.
Then would come hundreds of limbers and "G. S." wagons drawn by sleek,
well-fed mules, ridden by sleek, well-fed men, ever smiling. Although
grimy with sweat and covered with the fine, white dust of the
marvellously well-made French roads.
What a discouraging report the German air men must have taken back to
their Division Commanders, and this stream is slowly but surely
getting bigger and bigger every day, and the pace is always the same.
No slower, no faster, but ever onward, ever forward.
Three weeks before the Big Push of July 1st--as the Battle of the
Somme has been called--started, exact duplicates of the German
trenches were dug about thirty kilos behind our lines. The layout of
the trenches were taken from aeroplane photographs submitted by the
Royal Flying Corps. The trenches were correct to the foot; they showed
dugouts, saps, barbed wire defences, and danger spots.
Battalions that were to go over in the first waves were sent back for
three days to study these trenches, engage in practice attacks, and
have night maneuvers. Each man was required to make a map of the
trenches and familiarize himself with the names and location of the
parts his battalion was to attack.
In the American army non-commissioned officers are put through a
course of map making or road sketching, and during my six years'
service in the United States Cavalry, I had plenty of practice in this
work, therefore mapping these trenches was a comparatively easy task
for me. Each man had to submit his map to the Company Commander to be
passed upon, and I was lucky enough to have mine selected as being
sufficiently authentic to use in the attack.
No photographs or maps are allowed to leave France, but in this case
it appealed to me as a valuable souvenir of the Great War and I
managed to smuggle it through. At this time it carries no military
importance as the British lines, I am happy to say, have since been
advanced beyond this point, so it has been reproduced in this book
without breaking any regulation or cautions of the British Army.
The whole attack was rehearsed and rehearsed until we heartily cursed
the one who had conceived the idea.
The trenches were named according to a system which made it very
simple for Tommy to find, even in the dark, any point in the German
lines.
These imitation trenches, or trench models, were well guarded from
observation by numerous allied planes which constantly circled above
them. No German aeroplane could approach within observing distance. A
restricted area was maintained and no civilian was allowed within
three miles, so we felt sure that we had a great surprise in store for
Fritz.
When we took over the front line we received an awful shock. The
Germans displayed signboards over the top of their trench showing the
names that we had called their trenches. The signs read "Fair,"
"Fact," "Fate," and "Fancy" and so on, according to the code names on
our map. Then to rub it in, they hoisted some more signs which read,
"When are you coming over?" or "Come on, we are ready, stupid
English."
It is still a mystery to me how they obtained this knowledge. There
had been no raids or prisoners taken, so it must have been the work of
spies in our own lines.
Three or four days before the Big Push we tried to shatter Fritz's
nerves by feint attacks, and partially succeeded as the official
reports of July 1st show.
Although we were constantly bombarding their lines day and night,
still we fooled the Germans several times. This was accomplished by
throwing an intense barrage into his lines,--then using smoke shells
we would put a curtain of white smoke across No Man's Land, completely
obstructing his view of our trenches, and would raise our curtain of
fire as if in an actual attack. All down our trenches the men would
shout and cheer, and Fritz would turn loose with machine-gun, rifle,
and shrapnel fire, thinking we were coming over.
{Photo: Map of German Trenches. Hebuterne, France, 1916. Before the
"Big Push."}
After three or four of these dummy attacks his nerves must have been
near the breaking point.
On June 24, 1916, at 9:40 in the morning our guns opened up, and hell
was let loose. The din was terrific, a constant boom-boom-boom in your
ear.
At night the sky was a red glare. Our bombardment had lasted about two
hours when Fritz started replying. Although we were sending over ten
shells to his one, our casualties were heavy. There was a constant
stream of stretchers coming out of the communication trenches and
burial parties were a common sight.
In the dugouts the noise of the guns almost hurt. You had the same
sensation as when riding on the Subway you enter the tube under the
river going to Brooklyn--a sort of pressure on the ear drums, and
the ground constantly trembling.
The roads behind the trenches were very dangerous because Boche
shrapnel was constantly bursting over them. We avoided these dangerous
spots by crossing through open fields.
The destruction in the German lines was awful and I really felt sorry
for them because I realized how they must be clicking it.
From our front-line trench, every now and again, we could hear sharp
whistle blasts in the German trenches. These blasts were the signals
for stretcher bearers, and meant the wounding or killing of some
German in the service of his Fatherland.
Atwell and I had a tough time of it, patrolling the different trenches
at night, but after awhile got used to it.
My old outfit, the Machine Gun Company, was stationed in huge elephant
dugouts about four hundred yards behind the front-line trench-they
were in reserve. Occasionally I would stop in their dugout and have a
confab with my former mates. Although we tried to be jolly, still,
there was a lurking feeling of impending disaster. Each man was
wondering, if, after the slogan, "Over the top with the best of luck,"
had been sounded, would he still be alive or would he be lying
"somewhere in France." In an old dilapidated house, the walls of which
were scarred with machine-gun bullets, No. 3 section of the Machine
Gun Company had its quarters. The Company's cooks prepared the meals
in this billet. On the fifth evening of the bombardment a German
eight-inch shell registered a direct hit on the billet and wiped out
ten men who were asleep in the supposedly bomb-proof cellar. They were
buried the next day and I attended the funeral.