We fixed bayonets and clambered out, and somehow got together some kind
of formation and rushed towards the hedge. All we could see was a few
strange uniforms a quarter of a mile away. Away we went, and one of
our officers was bowled over straight away, whilst many on my right
and left dropped out. We shouted out our slogan, and went at them as
fast as we could. At last we arrived with a yell at the ditch where the
German riflemen were concealed, and they fired at us point-blank, but
not one of us went down. Then we went at them with the steel, and the
Germans being six feet below us, they had no chance. When we had each
“done” our man we had to jump over the ditch and on towards the German
guns. We were running like hell, when all of a sudden machine guns
poured into us from both sides, knocking dozens of us over in heaps.
The officers gave the word to retire, and we came back at a run. When
we came to the trench we had already jumped we found that we had not
killed all the Germans in it, and as we passed over it again we were
shot at, and my pal was nearly bayoneted. We got back, and did not do
much good. We killed a few hundred Germans, it is true, but we lost one
hundred and fifty men! The Germans will do anything to get away from
the cold steel: _A Cameron Highlander, at the Aisne_.
“Is This Death?”
It was a thousand times worse than being in hell. For six days we were
in the same trenches, almost at arm’s reach of the enemy. We could only
steal out under cover of darkness for a drink of water. It rained all
the time; but we had to make the best of it. Every day was the same as
the day before--an advance at daybreak and at night; but every time
we were beaten back by frightful odds. Each time we were forced back
we left hundreds of our men behind, killed and wounded. Then it was
the same old command, “Fall back on the trenches.” My comrades were
constantly falling by my side. Day after day, and every minute during
the day, German shells were falling around us like rain. We could hear
them coming through the air, and we would lie low in the trenches and
say, “That is another one that has missed us.” But the fatal one came
without us hearing it. Thirteen of us were together, and only one lucky
devil escaped. When the blow came I thought my head was taken off. I
fell on my knees and put one arm up in the air, and said, “Good God,
is this death?” I then put my hand on my face, and I felt the flesh,
which was so badly torn. But I felt no pain. It seemed dead. I crept
along the top of the trenches until I found the doctor who was with my
regiment. He simply put a piece of cotton-wool over my face and laid
me under a tree, as the firing was too heavy to get a proper dressing
on. For five hours I lay bleeding under that tree, and the German
shells were still falling about us like rain: _Pte. Kneale, Liverpool
Regiment_.