Most men who have won the Victoria Cross have gained it by some act of
violent, passionate valour. Private Harry Brown, Number 226353, of the
10th Battalion, won it by suppressing the impulse to violence. Whilst
others on the same field of battle were earning the decoration in the
impetuous fury of assault Harry Brown was earning it by the terrible,
pitiless restraint which he imposed on his emotions. His was the supreme
courage of self-control, the silent valour of abnegation.
The 10th Battalion took part in the attack on Hill 70, near Loos, which
began on the 15th of August, 1917, and lasted for several days. Before
midnight of the 14th the battalion was in position, and at 4.25 a.m. the
attack began. The first German line was captured in face of fierce
opposition, the fighting continuing intermittently throughout the day;
but the position was held. During the night, attempts were made to
consolidate the new line; but the 7th and the 8th Battalions were in
difficulties and the 10th Battalion was ordered next morning to move to
their assistance.
This second attack began at four o'clock on the afternoon of the 15th.
Chalk Pit, the redoubt on the left of Hill 70, was assaulted by "A," "B"
and "C" companies. "A" company encountered terrible enemy machine-gun
fire when within two hundred yards of the pit and were forced to take
cover in shell-holes for a time. After a short rest the position was
captured in a rush, the waves of attackers, carried forward by the
impetus of the advance, reaching a trench seventy-five yards beyond
Chalk Pit. The German occupants were all either killed or captured.
The position was being consolidated when Sergeant J. Wennevold and a
party of men of "C" company went out to reinforce a post to the right of
the new battalion front in order to protect the flank from a
counter-attack. Consolidation of that position was terrible work. To the
men who tried to dig into the hard, chalky soil that attempt must always
remain a nightmare. They could make little impression on the earth. In
one part of the front the result of the previous night's labour was a
trench scarcely two feet deep, blunted tools and aching hands and backs.
While the work was in progress the Germans poured a hurricane of fire
from machine-guns and field-guns on the position. Men were killed and
wounded faster than others could take their places. The crisis of that
day and night of endurance and agony came at a quarter to five o'clock
in the afternoon, when the Germans were seen massing for an attack on
the right.
By this time every wire to headquarters was cut by the enemy artillery.
If they were allowed to attack, the companies in the trench would be
annihilated and the hard-earned position lost. The situation was
desperate.
Only one chance of averting disaster remained.
A runner must get through with a message to our artillery asking them to
smash the German attack. Private Harry Brown and another runner
undertook to deliver the message. When they set out on their desperate
mission a hostile barrage was raking the open behind the newly occupied
ground, the enemy's intention being to prevent supports coming up. The
messengers had to get through this curtain of fire, a curtain under
which nearly every yard of ground was being churned into a mess or
torn up savagely in tons and tossed on high as if by some unseen
Brobdignagian hand.
They had gone but a little way on their adventurous journey when one was
killed and Brown was left, the only link between his isolated battalion
and its hope of succour. If he failed to get through his comrades would
be wiped out to a man.
He continued to stumble along, sinking into new, smoking craters, now
and then up to the waist, dragging himself out and crawling through the
debris, lying still for short intervals till the shock of the explosions
had passed. Flying missiles hit him and shattered an arm. He was
bleeding and exhausted. He sat down, dazed and uncomprehendingly. But
his will forced him to his feet again. He staggered onward towards the
support lines, walking like a man in a dream, his brain in constant
dark motion, his thoughts in a flux even as the ground on which he
strove for a footing.
It was a pained, dreary thing, sore and weary, that kept doggedly
crawling and staggering on through the intensity of the shrapnel and the
high explosive. His strength ran from him with the blood from his
mangled arm. His steps were automatic. The last part of the journey was
the worst. It was his _Via Dolorosa_.
* * * * *
An officer standing in a dug-out in the support line was peering out at
the devastation which the enemy artillery was spreading so prodigally.
Shells rained on every side, the earth shuddered and shrank at every
blow. But the telephone to headquarters was working.
A dark form crawled out of the ruin and stumbled towards the dug-out. It
was a soldier--hatless, pale, dirty, haggard, one arm hanging limp and
bloody by his side, his clothing torn and stained. He reached the steps
of the dug-out, and seeing the officer, tried to descend. But his
strength was gone, his limbs refused to act. He fell down the short
stairway, spent--utterly spent and dying.
The officer lifted him gently and brought him into the dug-out and laid
him down. Then Brown handed over his precious slip of paper.
"Important message," he whispered.
And Private Harry Brown lay back and drifted into unconsciousness. He
died a few hours later in the dressing station.
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