The Battle in the Mud
It was as unlike a charge as could possibly be imagined. With rifles
at the slope, the New Zealanders sauntered forward towards their
objective, keeping almost at the heels of the barrage, save here and
there where a "pill-box", presumably deserted, was found to be
chock-a-block with Huns. Almost before he was aware of it, Malcolm
found himself confronted by a practically intact concrete
block-house, which was so near the New Zealand outposts that it had
escaped damage during the bombardment. Looming ominously through the
misty, drizzling dawn, the pill-box might have accounted for scores
of gallant New Zealanders, for it was crammed with Huns, and well
provided with machine-guns. Yet not a shot came from that isolated
fortress. Unaware that it was tenanted, a dozen men of C Company
strolled past the grinning loopholes.
"Kamerad! Kamerad!"
The words, just audible above the clamour, caused several Diggers to
stop.
"By Jove," exclaimed Fortescue, "the place is full of Boches! Out
'em, boys!"
With levelled bayonets Malcolm, Selwyn, and half a dozen riflemen
advanced towards the door in the rear of the pill-box, while M'Turk
and M'Kane, each brandishing a bomb, ran close to the wall
immediately by the side of the machine-gun aperture. Here, secure
from bullets from the inside, they had the garrison at their mercy
should the Huns show any signs of treachery.
"Out you come, Fritz!" shouted Fortescue. "We won't hurt you."
Furtively a German poked his steel helmeted head through the
doorway. With arms upheld he stumbled out, terror written on his
face. Behind him, after a brief interval, came another; then more,
close at each other's heels, until fifty-three Huns, without firing
a shot, were prisoners in the hands of the New Zealanders.
"Who'll take them back?" asked Fortescue.
No one seemed at all anxious for the job. Every man whom the
Sergeant looked at enquiringly shook his head. With the prospect of
a scrap ahead, none would accept the task of escorting fifty
demoralized Huns.
"Send 'em back on their own, Sergeant," suggested M'Turk. "They'll
go quietly, you bet. We want to get on. Look where our barrage is."
Already the line of bursting shells was a couple of hundred yards
away. The advancing infantry-men were almost invisible in the
drifting smoke and rain.
"Off you go!" ordered Fortescue, pointing in the direction of the
New Zealand advance posts.
Like a flock of sheep the Huns, with hands still upraised, shuffled
on the first of their long trek to captivity--to some delectable
spot in England, where, far from the sound of the guns, there is
food in plenty for Hun prisoners of war, German U-boats
notwithstanding.
At the double the New Zealanders hastened to overtake the rest of C
Company. Away on the left sharp rifle and machine-gun fire,
punctuated by the crash of exploding bombs, showed that there were
other block-houses where a strenuous resistance was being
maintained. Men, too, were already returning wounded, cheerful in
spite of pain; others, lying in the mud, would never rise again, for
machine-guns were busy beyond the Hannebeke stream.
Ordinarily a quiet, well-conducted brook, the Hannebeke stream had
been rudely disturbed by the terrific bombardment of the British
heavies. Where a shell had fallen in the bed of the stream the lip
of the upheaved crater had formed a dam--and there was not one but
many such. Over the low-lying banks the water had flowed, until for
nearly a hundred yards in width there was water everywhere, hiding
the tenacious mud, and acting as a camouflage to thousands of deep
craters.
Into the morass the New Zealanders plunged boldly, only to find that
they were quickly up to their belts in mud and water. When a man
stumbled into a shell-hole, he simply disappeared, until, rising to
the surface, he managed to scramble out with the aid of a more
fortunate chum. Here and there huge spurts of mud and water leapt
towards the rainy sky as German shells burst indiscriminately in the
swollen stream; while everywhere the slowly-flowing water was
flecked with little spurts of spray as the machine-gun bullets
ricochetted from the surface. When a man was hit when crossing that
forbidding morass it generally meant death to him--death by
suffocation in the pestilent mud of Flanders.
Looking like muddy replicas of Lot's wife, Malcolm and Selwyn at
last emerged from the morass, Fortescue was ahead, Corporal Preston
too, while M'Turk, with his chum M'Kane hanging on to his back, was
just extricating himself from a deep crater.
"Thanks!" he exclaimed, as Malcolm gave him a hand. He was too
breathless to say more. Setting his burden down in the shelter of a
ruined pill-box, M'Turk bound up his chum's wound--a machine-gun
bullet through the calf of his right leg.
"Now you stop there till I come back," he admonished the "buckshied"
M'Kane, "unless the bearers pick you up. Just the silly thing you
would do, to try and crawl through that muck. S'long. See you
presently."
He overtook Malcolm, swinging along with prodigious strides despite
the tenacious slime. "There are the swine who knocked my pal over,"
he shouted, pointing to an insignificant heap of stones about eighty
yards to his right front.
"There's a blessed tic-tac in there. I'll blow 'em to blazes."
The fragments of concrete marked the former position of a pill-box
which had been built over a deep dug-out. The German machine-gunners
had lain low when the first wave of New Zealanders had swept
overhead; then, hauling up their deadly weapon, they had trained it
on the khaki lads still struggling through the Hannebeke stream.
Grasping a bomb, M'Turk edged cautiously towards the flank of the
machine-gun emplacement; but before he had gone ten yards he stopped
and stood upright with his left hand raised to the rim of his
shrapnel-helmet. For quite five seconds he remained thus, then his
knees gave way under him, slowly and reluctantly, it seemed, he fell
in a huddled heap face downwards in the mud.
"M'Turk's down, by Heaven!" ejaculated Malcolm.
He threw himself on his hands and knees and crawled towards the
luckless bomber, Selwyn following. With an effort they dragged the
man on his back. He was beyond mortal aid. A rifle bullet had struck
him fairly on the left temple, causing instantaneous death.
Slinging his rifle, Malcolm possessed himself of three of M'Turk's
bombs. He would attempt to carry out the task the bomber had essayed
when a chance bullet struck him down: to wipe out the viper's nest
and to silence the deadly machine-gun that was loosing a fresh bolt
of ammunition upon the floundering men making their way across the
swollen stream.
He advanced rapidly. Time was the first consideration, caution
second. Every instant instant meant death to his comrades in the
mud.
Suddenly one of the machine-gunners caught sight of the approaching
danger. With a yell he sprang to his feet and raised his hands. The
machine-gun began to spit fire once more, and that decided it. The
Hun who offered to surrender was a negligible quantity.
With splendid precision the Mills's bomb flew straight at the group
of grey-coated men. One missile was enough. Malcolm turned and
doubled after his comrades, and, again under shelter of the
slowly-creeping barrage, was once more in comparative safety.
On and on pressed the now-exultant Diggers, until the steady advance
was checked. Somewhere through the mist and smoke came a hail of
machine-gun bullets. Men were dropping right and left.
"Take cover!" shouted an officer.
It was easier said than done. The muddy ground afforded little
shelter, while the shell-craters were filled with water. The barrage
had passed on and was "squatting" at about two hundred yards
distance.
The obstacle was then revealed. Away to the left front of C Company
was a concrete redoubt built around a heap of rubbish that marked
the site of Van Meulen Farm. Bravely a number of New Zealanders
rushed forward with bomb and bayonet, only to drop in the mud under
the hellish machine-gun fire.
How fared the rest of the advance the men on this particular sector
knew not. They were most unpleasantly aware that a formidable
barrier lay athwart their course, and that it must be rushed before
the troops could storm the heights. Not only was Van Meulen Redoubt
strongly constructed and well armed; it was stubbornly held by some
of the pick of the German army--men resolved to fight to the last
cartridge rather than surrender.
"Why don't they send along the Tanks?" asked little Henderson, as he
thrust a fresh charge into his magazine.
"Never mind about the Tanks, sonny," replied Sergeant Fortescue.
"We've got to do our own dirty work."
For nearly twenty minutes the men maintained a hot fire,
concentrating their aim upon the narrow apertures through which the
machine-guns were delivering their death-dealing bullets. It was a
thankless task. A machine-gun would be silenced for a few seconds
and then resume its fire; for each weapon, in addition to the
protection afforded by the massive concrete walls, was equipped with
a steel shield through which a narrow sighting-aperture afforded the
only vulnerable spot.
At last one of the battalions forming the reserve stormers came up,
eager for the fray. If courage and sheer weight of numbers could win
the day Van Meulen Farm was doomed.
"Come on, boys!" shouted a young officer. "I'll lead you. Rout the
beggars out of it."
With a cheer the men leapt from their scanty cover. Bombers, Lewis
gunners, and riflemen surged forward, heedless of the gaps in their
ranks. The intervening ground was all but covered when the gallant
young officer fell. His death, far from disheartening the men, added
fuel to their burning ardour.
Into the machine-gun slits bombs were tossed in dozens, until the
confined space within the redoubt was filled with noxious smoke from
the loud-sounding missiles of destruction. Still the Huns held out.
When one machine-gun was disabled another was brought up; but by
this time the deadly weapon had lost much of the sting.
The entrance to the blockhouse was forbidding enough. A flight of
narrow and steep stone steps gave access to a low doorway. On the
metal-cased woodwork the Diggers rained blows with the butt-ends of
their rifles; others, placing the muzzles of the weapons close to
the stout fastenings, strove to blow them away. It was not until a
dozen men, bearing a massive beam, appeared upon the scene that the
difficulty was overcome. The battering-ram simply pulverized the
already-weakening barrier. With a cheer, and preceded by a shower
of grenades, the riflemen poured in to complete the work with cold
steel.
Within was a terrible scene. In hot blood civilized men went back to
primeval instincts and fought like wild beasts, clawing, tearing and
gouging when it was too close work for the bayonet. The smoke-laden
air was rent with shouts, oaths, shrieks, and groans, punctuated by
the clash of steel and the whip-like cracks of automatic pistols.
Like rats in a trap the Huns fought and died, while the survivors of
the storming-party staggered out of the shambles and threw
themselves on the ground in sheer bodily exhaustion.
Rifleman Carr had come off lightly. One of the first to force his
way through the shattered entrance, he presented a sorry appearance.
His right sleeve was torn away at the elbow, the left was ripped
almost to ribbons. His Webb equipment was twisted and cut; he was
plastered in mud and filth from head to foot, while his steel helmet
bore the splayed marks of the impact of two pistol-bullets fired at
close range. Nevertheless, with the exception of a slight cut across
the cheek, and the mark of a Hun's teeth showing angrily above his
left wrist, he was uninjured.
A burning thirst gripped his throat. He felt for his water-bottle.
It was no longer there. Unconcernedly he reached out his hand and
secured one belonging to a dead comrade. The bottle was full. The
liquid put new life into him.
"Hallo, Henderson!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the man, who was
vainly struggling to unfix the remains of his bayonet. "Seen
Selwyn?"
"Half a tick ago," was the reply. "He's all right. Seen anything of
Stewart?"
"Chuck it!" ejaculated Sergeant Fortescue. "What's the use of
worrying about your pals when the job's not finished? Come along; if
you can't run, walk; if you can't walk, crawl. We can't have C
Company out of the last lap."
He spoke imperiously--savagely. A greater contrast to the
mild-spoken, 'Varsity-educated greenhorn, who, a few years
previously, was down on his luck in New Zealand, could hardly be
imagined. A great responsibility had been thrown upon his shoulders.
With the lust of battle gripping him, he found himself a leader of
men.
C Company was widely scattered. Many had fallen; others had gone
forward with other companies; platoons and units were mingled
indiscriminately. After the fall of Van Meulen Farm Redoubt
Fortescue discovered that he was senior non-com. of the remnants of
C Company, while not a single commissioned officer was left
standing.
The men resumed their advance. Scores of prisoners, making their way
in the opposite direction, were visible and comforting signs that
the day was still going well; while wounded New Zealanders,
painfully making for the dressing-stations, were able to augment the
news by the announcement that the Diggers were up and over the
Abraham Heights. Beyond that there were no indications of how the
battle fared--whether the Tommies on the left or the "Aussies" on
the right were maintaining equal progress. Mist and smoke and the
deafening clamour of thousands of guns limited both range of vision
and hearing.
The ground was better going now. On the slope, the mud, though still
ankle-deep, was a hardly-noticeable impediment. Stolidly the handful
of men comprising the remains of C Company held onwards, eager to
renew a closer acquaintance with Fritz.
"Cheer-o, Malcolm!" exclaimed a voice. "Didn't recognize you."
Rifleman Carr glance indifferently over his shoulder. Dick Selwyn,
his jaw enveloped in a bandage, had just overtaken him.
"Buckshie?" enquired Malcolm laconically.
"Nothing--just a mere scratch," was the reply. "I thought you were
done in back there. In fact, I was looking for what was left of
you."
"I might have been," rejoined Malcolm. He found himself wondering at
his apathy in the matter. In the heat of combat the grim figure of
Death stalking up and down amid his comrades hardly concerned him.
The horror of it all would be apparent after the battle--if he lived
to see it.
"Young Stewart's gone," continued Selwyn. "A shell copped him.
Corporal Preston, too, and goodness only knows who else. They've
played the very deuce with the boys."
"It'll be worse before it's finished," added Malcolm. "But I
wouldn't miss it for anything."
Over the already-won ground, pitted with shell-holes and thickly
strewn with khaki and field-grey forms, the men of C Company
continued their advance, until they fell in with a swarm of Diggers
preparing to rush another formidable obstacle to the achievement of
the objective.