The Eve of Messines
"Now then, you chaps, if you aren't hungry your pals are. Look
slippy and get those rations up. You'll tumble across the wagons at
La Tuille Farm."
"Right oh, Sergeant!" responded a youthful corporal. "Come along,
chapses! Best foot forward!"
The Sergeant, having seen that a start was about to be made, backed
out of the dug-out, dropped the tapestried curtain--it was a ragged
and soiled ground-sheet--over the entrance, and disappeared along the
narrow trench.
Crowded into the small dug-out were seven New Zealand riflemen.
Three of them are old acquaintances: Carr, Selwyn, and Macready, all
looking lean, dirty, and unkempt, while their uniforms were caked in
dried mud and frayed with hard usage. The final touches at Staples
were a thing of the past. For four long days the men had been in the
first-line trenches facing the formidable Messines Ridge.
The dug-out was comparatively dry. For one thing, the weather had
been propitious, and the loathsome mud had almost disappeared. The
roof was composed of untrimmed tree trunks on which were piled
sand-bags sufficiently thick to stop shells of medium calibre. The
walls were likewise timbered, while along three sides ran a narrow
shelf on which were bundles of straw to serve as beds. Hanging from
nails driven into the rough-and-ready wainscot were the men's
haversacks and other equipment, while ranged alongside the door were
their rifles. Those were the only objects upon which any great care
had been bestowed. In spite of rain, mud, discolouring fumes of
shells, hard usage, and a dozen other difficulties, the rifles were
kept well-oiled and in perfect condition.
In the centre of the dug-out stood a cylindrical piece of perforated
iron in which a fire was burning dully. The fumes filled the
confined space to such an extent that it was difficult for any of
the occupants to distinguish their companions' features, but that
was a detail to be endured with equanimity in the trenches. As it
was the month of June, and warm, the men were lucky to be able to
have a fire, considering the scarcity of fuel and the difficulty of
conveying wood and charcoal up to the firing-line.
During the day Fritz had been actively engaged in "watering" the
line with high-explosive shells. Not only did the advance and
support trenches get it hot, but for miles behind the lines hostile
shells were dropping promiscuously, on the chance of blowing up one
or more of the numerous dumps and otherwise hampering the supply
columns. But as night fell the "strafe" became desultory, and under
cover of darkness the fatigue and foraging parties were able to set
to work with a reasonable chance of getting through without being
"done in".
"Come along, boys," exclaimed the young corporal--Billy Preston from
Timaru--a veteran of Egypt and Gallipoli notwithstanding the fact
that he was within a month of his twenty-first birthday. "The sooner
we get the job done the better."
The men were dog-tired. A couple of hostile raids had kept them on
the qui vive the previous night, while throughout the day they had
had but few opportunities for sleep. And now, just as they were
preparing to snatch a few hours' rest, they had been told off to
bring up the rations.
"We've got to assemble at two, haven't we?" enquired Rifleman
Joliffe--commonly known as Grouser Joliffe. "They say our chaps are
to attempt to take Messines Ridge. Attempt, I say, mind you, and our
guns haven't hardly touched the job. There's uncut wire, you can see
that for Yourselves, and machine-guns every yard of the way.
'Struth! I'm for swinging the lead. You don't catch me hurrying when
the whistle goes."
His remarks fell on unheeding ears. The men were used to Grouser
Joliffe's complaints by this time, They knew that when the critical
moment arrived Joliffe would be amongst the first to mount the
fire-step and clamber over the parapet. Yet there were grounds for
belief in what the rifleman had said. The formidable ridge was to be
attempted. The British knew it; the Huns knew it. With its
labyrinths of wire and nests of skilfully-hidden machine-guns
Messines Ridge was far more difficult to assault than in the earlier
stages of the war, when French won and lost the important position.
Meanwhile Malcolm had rolled out of his narrow uncomfortable perch
and was stretching his cramped limbs. Selwyn was fumbling with his
puttees.
"Hang it," he exclaimed. "A rat has been gnawing at them. Anyone got
a piece of string?"
The deficiency remedied, and the scanty toilet operations performed
(the inhabitants of the dug-out had turned in "all standing", even
to their boots), the men put on their shrapnel helmets, seized their
rifles, and sallied forth into the night.
For some moments Malcolm could see nothing. The transition from the
smoky, ill-lighted dug-out to the darkness of the open air confused
his sight. All he could do was to keep in touch with the man
preceding him until he grew accustomed to the change of venue.
Fresh air--is there such a thing anywhere within miles of No Man's
Land? Malcolm doubted it. The atmosphere reeked of numerous and
distinct odours. Traces of poison gas lurked in the traverses,
pungent fumes from bursting shells wafted over parapet and parados,
while the report, passed on from various successive occupants of
this section of the line, that a dozen dead Huns had been buried
under the floor of the support trench--the old first-line trench of
a Prussian regiment--seemed to find definite confirmation.
A low whine and a terrific _wump_ as a high-explosive shell arrived
and burst fifty yards in the rear of the trench showed that Fritz
was still strafing. A fortnight previously Malcolm's heart would
have been in his boots. Now he scarcely heeded the messenger of
death and destruction, although showers of dust and calcined wood
flew over the parados amongst the ration party. Familiarity with
missiles of that description had quickly bred contempt.
At frequent intervals lurid star-shells lit up the sky. The Huns
were getting decidedly jumpy of late. Expecting a strong attack, yet
not knowing the actual time, they were massing their men on the
ridge under the protection of their artillery. Away to the left
machine-guns were delivering a _staccato obbligato_.
"Our heavies are quiet to-night," remarked Selwyn, who was trudging
along the duck-boards literally on Malcolm's heels. "Why to blazes
don't they give Fritz half a dozen for every one he throws over?
Hanged if I can make things out."
Malcolm pulled tip suddenly, to avoid charging into the back of the
man immediately preceding him. Those behind bunched up and halted,
while from the front of the single file came a very strong
exclamation of pain and anger.
"What's wrong?" enquired the Corporal "Someone buckshied?"
"Yes," replied the voice of Grouser Joliffe. "Copped it in my
blessed arm."
"Then foot it to the dressing-station," ordered Corporal Preston.
"Me?" enquired the rifleman. "Me? Not much. Wait till we've brought
in the grub, and then--you don't catch me going over the top
tonight."
For another hundred and fifty yards the party proceeded before the
men turned into the zigzag communication-trench. This ran backwards
for nearly a mile. In places it was eight feet deep, with sand-bags
on either side in addition, In others, in marshy spots, where the
high-explosive shells had spitefully disturbed the tranquillity of
meandering streams and carried the sluggish water to overflow and
swamp the surrounding ground, the "trench" was above normal
ground-level, with a lofty and broad wall of sand-bags to right and
left. Here and there the trench was roofed in, where, from
experience, men had learnt it was unhealthy owing to being exposed
to machine-gun fire. The Huns had got to know the weak spots. Aerial
observation during daylight had enabled them to train machine-guns
upon certain points of the communication-trenches. The lethal
weapons would be ominously silent until after dark; then, on the
off-chance of receiving a good bag, they would let loose a hail of
bullets.
The men hastened across the more-exposed sections generally on their
hands and knees. Even the bravest heaved a sigh of relief when the
danger-spot was safely crossed. Going over the top they would
unhesitatingly rush a machine-gun emplacement, but crawling away
from the enemy, never knowing when a hail of bullets would sweep the
ground, was enough to try the nerves of the case-hardened
campaigner.
Presently the communication-trench ended, and the ration-party
stumbled across a double line of narrow-gauge rails, part of the
intricate system behind the lines. The track ran diagonally to the
direction of the trench. To the left it led to and beyond the Army
Service Corps dump at La Tuille. In the opposite direction it
disappeared in the bowels of the earth, while a network of branch
lines complicated the system. All through the hours of darkness, for
several months past, heavily-laden trucks carefully covered with
camouflaged canvas rumbled away from the lines to return empty ere
dawn. Latterly the reverse conditions prevailed. Full trucks, each
propelled singly by manual labour and with long intervals between
the vehicles, proceeded towards the trenches but never reached them.
Subterranean works of an extensive nature were on the point of being
completed. Every load of excavation was carefully taken miles to the
rear in the dead of night, in order to baffle the enemy's aerial
observers. So well guarded were these operations that even the men
in the trenches were unaware of their nature, although many shrewd
conjectures were not far out.
"Hallo, chums!" called out one of the ration-party as a truck hauled
by three sappers rattled along. "How's your Channel Tunnel scheme
getting along?"
"Fine!" was the reply. "Are you taking up any shares in the concern?
There'll be a sharp rise very shortly, you know."
Another fifty yards and a word of command from Corporal Preston
brought the squad to a halt. Out of the darkness came the sound of a
hundred marching feet; then, almost invisible in their khaki
uniform, a battalion of Australian infantry passed. It was
significant that the men were in light marching order.
"By Gum! There's something up," whispered Selwyn. "Crowds of bombers
and a whole crush of Lewis guns. Hallo! Here's more of them."
The progress of the ration-party was slow. A constant stream of
infantry, swarms of transport of all conditions, clearly denoted
that operations of more than minor importance were impending.
"There's enough to swamp our trenches," declared Malcolm. "Where on
earth are they going to assemble?"
"That Sapper fellow evidently knew something when he talked about a
sharp rise," said Selwyn. "And look! Tanks--crowds of them!"
Ambling along by the side of the tramway came a long line of
armoured mastodons. The ground shook under the relentless pressure
of the tractor bands, the air reeked with petrol fumes. Viewed in
broad daylight the Tanks looked formidable enough; in the darkness,
their weird outlines distorted by the misty atmosphere, they
appeared like huge, grotesque monsters from another world.
"If I were Fritz I'd think twice before standing up to one of those
brutes," soliloquized Malcolm. "Twenty-two of them. This will be a
big stunt, and no mistake."
At length, after many delays, the ration-party arrived at the
farm--or, rather, the pile of rubble that was known as La Tuille
Farm before a nest of German machine-guns had attracted the notice
of an observant battery-commander. That was three months ago.
Already nettles and briers were covering the blackened debris, as if
Nature were doing her best to disguise the destructive handiwork of
Man.
At the rear of the mound was the A.S.C. advanced depot. Piles of
bully-beef tins, tiers of barrels and cases, small mountains of
loaves covered with tarpaulins, were diminishing rapidly under the
heavy calls made upon them by deputations from the men in the
trenches. Although within range of hostile guns, the "dump" had so
far escaped serious damage, To bring the supplies nearer the lines
by mechanical transfer would be to court disaster, so every ounce of
food had to be carried by squads detailed for that purpose. Every
scrap of provisions the men in the trenches received had to be
brought at the risk of life and limb. The task was a hazardous one,
but there was never any lack of men willing and eager to run the
risk of being strafed for the sake of feeding their comrades in the
firing-line.
Corporal Preston went off to find the non-com. who had to issue the
rations to his section, leaving his men to stand easy until he
returned.
Someone touched Malcolm on the shoulder.
"Bear a hand, chum, and help me turn off the tap," said a husky
voice.
Malcolm turned, and found that the speaker was Grouser Joliffe.
"Turn off what tap?" he asked.
"S--sh! Not so loud!" continued the rifleman. "It's my arm, I mean.
Bleeding like anything. Help me off with my coat and clap a
first-aid dressing on it, and I'll be all right. No dressing-station
for me, I'll miss this stunt. Think we'll be back in time?" he added
anxiously. "Corporal's a long time about it."
The two men withdrew a few paces, and Carr helped Joliffe to remove
his coat. Already the sleeve was moist and clammy. On the left arm,
just below the shoulder, was a nasty gash, caused by a fragment of a
shell.
"It's good enough for Blighty, old lad!" exclaimed Malcolm.
"No dinkum Blighty for me!" expostulated Joliffe vehemently. "Never
had a chance to fire a round yet--nor to use my blinkin' bay'net.
But I mean to," he added. "If the boys go over the top without me
there'll be trouble!" Malcolm bound up the wound, adjusting the
bandages tightly. Although the dressing operation was a painful one,
Grouser Joliffe never uttered a sound, although Malcolm could see
beads of perspiration glistening on the rifleman's wrinkled
forehead.
"How's that?" he asked.
Joliffe lifted his left arm with an effort.
"Feels a bit stiff," he admitted. "Maybe you've tied those bandages
a bit too tight. Still, 'tisn't your fault. When we get back I'll
have a few swings with my rifle and bay'net; then if the dressing
wants altering you'll bear a hand?"
"Certainly!" said Malcolm, as he helped the man on with his coat.
"You'll be lucky if you don't fall out before we get back," he
soliloquized.
Having drawn the stores, the ration-party set out on the return
journey. Until they reached the commencement of the
communication-trench they were able to make use of a couple of empty
trucks which were lying on a siding close to the dump.
The vehicles each had four flanged wheels. The bodies were made of
wood, originally painted grey, but little of the paint was left.
Caked mud still stuck to the bottom of the trucks, but men in the
firing-line cannot be fastidious. Loaves, bags of sugar, tea, and
tins of bully beef were thrown in indiscriminately. The
water-carriers lifted their heavy burdens--every drop of water had
to be taken into the trenches, for, although there are springs and
water-holes in abundance close to the firing-line, the risk of
contamination had to be carefully guarded against--and the
"homeward" trek began.
Beyond a few desultory shells the British artillery was practically
inactive. Fritz had already been used to a furious bombardment as a
preliminary of a "big stunt". For change, he was not being warned in
this fashion, and, consequently, although expecting an attack within
the next few days, the absence of a downright strafe put him off his
guard. Nevertheless, the German guns on the spur of Messines Ridge,
and miles beyond the heights, were persistently "watering" the
ground behind the British lines.
Stumbling over the sleepers, the ration-party kept their groaning
vehicles rumbling along the hastily-laid track. Grouser Joliffe was
silent now, but Malcolm noticed that, although he used only one hand
to help propel the truck, he was not lacking in energy.
"He won't last out at that rate," thought the lad; but when he
offered to take the place of the wounded man, Joliffe turned upon
him almost savagely.
"I'm all right," he persisted. "You keep your mouth shut and let me
alone, or the other fellows will tumble to it. I was a blamed fool
to holler when I copped it!"
A shrieking, tearing sound had the effect of making every man throw
himself upon the ground. With a terrific crash an 8-inch shell
exploded within fifty yards of the track, sending showers of dirt
over the trucks and upon the prostrate party.
"All right there?" enquired the Corporal, as the men regained their
feet. "Good! Carry on."
A short distance farther on the party came to an abrupt halt. The
rails had vanished. Across the track was a crater twenty feet in
diameter, from which acrid fumes were still slowly emanating from
the pulverized earth. Already a fatigue-party was at work diverting
the lines round the edge of the yawning pit. At all costs
communication must be maintained, in order to leave no hitch in the
arrangements for the morning's attack.
"You'll have to unload, mate," said the sergeant in charge of the
Engineers. "Thank your lucky stars you weren't here twenty minutes
ago. The Jocks copped it. They've carted fifteen of 'em off. There's
been two of 'em already to-night, so look out for a third for luck."
The Diggers set to work to negotiate the obstacle. The idea of
unloading did not appeal to them in the slightest. Leaving a man in
charge of one truck--experience had taught them the necessity for
that, where unguarded stores are anyone's property--all hands lifted
the second vehicle clear of the rails.
The flanged wheels sank deeply into the soft ground, but by sheer
hard work the truck was propelled round the crater to the spot where
the lines resumed their-sphere of usefulness.
On the way back to the other track Malcolm glanced at the luminous
face of his wristlet watch. It was nearly midnight.
Suddenly a blinding flash appeared to leap from the g round at the
lad's feet. With a tremendous roar ringing in his ears, Malcolm
found himself being hurtled through the air, and amidst a shower of
debris he fell, a limp mass, into the smoking crater.