7 the mines at Hill 60 and St. Yves were exploded. The sight was
awe-inspiring, and the ground trembled as if in the throes of an
agonizing palsy. On the tick of the appointed time our 'boys' went
'over the top.' It was for this experience that they had worked and
waited. They advanced immediately behind the barrage so consistently
sustained by the artillery, and in the face of a terrific fusilade of
machine-gun fire which seemed to leap upon them from almost every
angle. Some of the enemy machine-guns were captured by our troops, who
used them with deadly effect upon the then retiring foe. All the
objectives were obtained with clock-like precision. Again and again
the victorious troops were subjected to withering counter-attacks, and
shells fell around them like hail. There was no faltering. They held
the recovered ground in the face of a merciless tornado of steel and
bullets.
As the infantry advanced, the pioneers and engineers followed, digging
trenches, extending tramways, and keeping the lines of communication
clear. No pen, however facile, could give the true lines to the
picture. Ordinary language is inadequate to express all that was
achieved, seen, and felt. The men did splendidly. The respective work
of the several services was perfectly co-ordinated, so much so that
after the 'stunt' it seemed as if a mutual admiration society had been
spontaneously organized. The infantry congratulated the Flying Corps,
the Flying Corps complimented the Artillery, and both Artillery and
Flying Corps were loud in their praise of the dauntless Infantry. All
did their part, and the taking of Messines will probably be chronicled
as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, of battles in connexion
with this world-war.
Prior to this engagement the Third Division had experienced but a
sprinkling of fire, but during its progress it received its baptism,
and emerged from the battle with a reputation of which any unit might
be proud. It was a stupendous task, a severe test for the 'baby'
Division, but every man rose to the occasion. The wounded were
cheerful, the dead died gloriously, and those of us who are alive and
remain are proud to have had some part in such an important and
eminently successful undertaking.
There were many acts of heroism, some of which have been officially
recognized. The Australians have the utmost contempt for the enemy as
fighting men. They declare that if the artillery and air-craft were
eliminated they would be prepared to give the enemy the benefit of
odds in hand-to-hand fighting.
One instance will suffice to illustrate their indomitable spirit.
While the 'push' was in progress, a man who, in his own words, had
'stopped one,' was carried to an R.A.P. His wounds were numerous and
rather serious. Two fingers of the left hand had been blown off, his
right arm was shattered, his head and neck were much cut about, and
blood oozed from wounds on his chest. This man had got a 'Blighty,'
but he did not appear to be at all pleased. It should be stated that
the men who receive wounds sufficiently serious to warrant their being
sent to hospitals in England are considered, and consider themselves,
very fortunate. He was disappointed because he was wounded, not that
he complained about his disfigurement or the pain. I expressed my
sympathy and wished him a speedy recovery and a happy time in
'Blighty,' and suggested that possibly there would be no need for him
to return, for the Hun might soon be driven out from Belgium. He eyed
me unflinchingly, and endeavoured to raise himself on his uninjured
elbow, and then blurted out, 'It is just as well for the ---- Huns
that I got wounded.' These were not the exact words he used. There
were many accompanying adjectives, without which the vocabulary of the
Australian would be very limited indeed. This big-hearted,
whole-souled, hefty 'Westralian' seemed to think that the issue to
that particular 'push' depended absolutely upon him.
The men of the Third Division have now had the experience which many
had longed for. Going 'over the top' was not quite so romantic as
fancy had pictured it to be, and the experience which is common to all
who take part in it for the first time defies expression. A peculiar
sensation creeps annoyingly slowly along the spinal column, subtly
affecting every member of the body. There's a gripping of the heart
and a numbing of the brain, and the tongue persistently cleaves to the
roof of the mouth, which seems as dry as powdered chalk. A choking
sensation accompanies every effort to cough. You may be in the
stepping-off trench or lying face-down on the churned-up mud out on
'no man's land,' waiting for the signal to 'go.' The seconds tick
slowly by, the minutes are leaden-footed in their passing, and seem
like eternities. The eyes are almost blinded through the strain of
peering into darkness, the imagination runs riot, grotesque shapes are
conjured into view, only to be dissipated by a solitary flare or a
series of gun-flashes. The fact that it is raining and you are lying
in a gradually deepening pool of water occasions no concern. What
matters most is that your puttees are frayed or your boots in need of
repair, but you console yourself with the thought that after the
'stunt' it will be easy to get a new outfit, and maybe you commence to
make plans as to how you will spend your leave. You appear to be quite
oblivious to the fact that the next moment may be your last.
Ages roll by; suddenly you are conscious of somebody by your side; you
make an attempt to smile, when at the same instant the ground trembles
as if in the throes of a tremendous earthquake; flash after flash in
quick succession; the air vibrates with noises that deafen; hundreds
of shells hurtle overhead. 'That's 'er,' shouts the man by your side.
You are pleased that something has happened to divert your mind from
its morbid fancyings. This is the 'Dinkum.' The electrical effect upon
your mind and body is wonderful. You break from the shackles that fear
and fancy have thrown round you. The reports of terrific explosions
rend the air, you grip frantically at the soft mud to prevent yourself
being hurled through space. Somebody from somewhere makes a sign, and
in a moment you are erect and speeding in the direction of the enemy
lines. There is but one thought in the mind as you allow your hand to
tighten round your rifle--to gain your objective. Heaven help the Hun
who attempts to frustrate you. 'Hurrah!' The wire has been smashed to
smithereens, and in less time than it takes to describe you are 'over
the top'--close up to the enemy line. You stumble forward, onward,
without noticing the broken nature of the ground. The sight of the
enemy rushing towards you with hands well above their heads, shouting
'Kamerad,' or fleeing before your advance, excites greater enthusiasm.
You begin to notice other things. Possibly the first thing that dawns
upon your mind is that others are taking part in the business--that
you are not alone. Then you notice the effect of our shell-fire; this
inspires greater confidence, and involuntarily you thank heaven for
such splendid artillery. Then you notice little heaps clad in familiar
khaki--they are what remain of comrades who have sealed their love of
country with their blood. You observe others wandering aimlessly
about, suffering from shell-shock; or the gallant stretcher-bearers,
regardless of all danger, attending to the wounded and carrying them
back for treatment. The sight does not grieve or shock you--only
surprise is evinced by a change in facial expression. You just carry
on--the shock and grief will come later. You just grit your teeth and
take a fresh grip of your rifle and go forward with greater
determination to strike a blow in the cause of freedom and honour.
Maybe you reach your objective, your clothes sodden with sticky,
clammy mud and possibly the red of your own blood showing through.
The whole thing has been like some dream of adventure with wild
beasts; but there is firmly embedded in your consciousness the
knowledge that you have done the job. Other waves of men pass through
the line which you have wrested from the Hun; you cheer them as they
pass, and then dig in for all you are worth.
A few days later there appears in the daily papers, under the heading
of 'British Official,' that the troops penetrated the enemy's lines to
such and such a depth, and have bravely withstood several terrific
counter-attacks; and war correspondents will cable the news to our
waiting people of the Homeland that the 'boys' magnificently stormed
and won additional fame; but if you want it in the every-day language
of the man from 'down under,' he merely went 'over the top.'
After the rush there is no time for rest. The recovered ground must be
retained. New positions have to be consolidated, fresh gun positions
have to be constructed. The lines must be made habitable. The dead
have to be buried. The efficient and expeditious manner in which this
work was accomplished established the Third Division's right to full
participation in the honour and glory of the taking and holding of
Messines by the Second Anzacs.
SHELLS: A FEW SMILES AND A CONTRAST
When the guns begin to speak, and shells are hurtling through the air,
places of shelter are resorted to. These places are not always
shell-proof, but they serve as a protection against splinters. There
are few places that would withstand the effects of a direct hit by a
heavy shell, but one feels perfectly safe with even a sheet of iron
overhead. The effects of an explosion are very local, and the chances
of a direct hit are very remote. The first law of nature takes
precedence during a bombardment. Precaution is esteemed to be much
better than a blanket and burial.
In and about the towns at the back of the lines where the troops are
billeted there are a sprinkling of civilians. When these places are
being shelled they display no fear. Occasionally elderly people will
cover their heads with their hands and seek shelter in the cellars,
while the soldier, ostrich-like, is quite contented provided he has
some protection for his head, but the majority continue with their
work as in normal times. When the civilians were questioned as to
whether they were afraid of the enemy breaking through and carrying
them off or killing them, they would confidently reply, 'Oh, no!
British between.' They feel perfectly safe, knowing that the British
are between them and the Hun.
Many of them have good reason to remember the time when the enemy were
in occupation of the town. In some instances the Germans have been
highly spoken of. I give credence to every good report. Personally, we
bear them no ill-will. We detest the system which has made them what
they are, and we are here to crush it, and sincerely hope that the men
of the German race who, however, mistaken, are ready to lay down their
lives for their country, may emerge from this war and be re-made on
the anvil of defeat, and in the days to be redeem to honour the name
which to-day is the synonym for all that is brutal and abhorrent.
That all of them are not filled with implacable hatred towards the
British is evidenced in the following incident. We attempted to raid
the enemy trenches. The weather was bitterly cold and the night was
dark. Our artillery put over a heavy barrage, after which the raiding
party went forth; they crept forward over the muddy ground, and
entered the German lines. Several casualties were sustained during the
operations. When our men returned to their trenches, it was discovered
that one of the raiding party was missing. When the noise of the
counter-barrage had died down, a cry for help was distinctly heard by
our front line troops. It came from 'no man's land.' A couple of
stretcher-bearers and two men went out in search of the one in
distress. While groping about amongst the wire in the darkness, they
heard the Germans assuring the man for whom they were searching that
he would be all right. Suddenly the enemy turned a trench searchlight
on to 'no man's land,' and by this light the search party were guided
to their wounded comrade. The light was kept on him until he was
rescued, and was then used to guide the party back to their own lines.
During this time no shot was fired. This was a humane action indeed.
All the Huns, however, are not so humanely disposed. In connexion with
another raid on the enemy trenches, our men met with violent
opposition, but succeeded in obtaining their objective. When
returning, a few of the party were wounded--one very seriously. He was
unable to make his way back. The Germans got him, stripped him of his
uniform, and left him against the wire. The weather being intensely
cold, the man soon died from exposure. These two incidents illustrate
the two extremes in the attitude of the Huns towards the British. One
was a brutal act of hatred, the other a humane act, which commends
itself to both friend and foe.
[Illustration: To see ourselves as others see us.]
The Germans have been credited with almost every conceivable
atrocity that man is capable of perpetrating. Whether these
brutalities are perpetrated with the sanction of the German
authorities, or are merely the expression of individual hatred, one is
not prepared to state. We have ceased to be angry with or alarmed at
their tactics of intimidation. We interpret every act of frightfulness
as evidence of desperate conditions. The only effect that such
devilish methods have upon the men in the lines is to make them more
determined to crush the mad and murderous spirit of militarism which
holds the Hun in its merciless grip.
During ordinary trench warfare the enemy appears to concentrate his
artillery fire on to the towns and villages at the back of our lines.
Villages have been practically eliminated and large towns reduced to a
heap of ruins. The destruction of these places is of no military
consequence. It is pure vandalism.
Bairnsfather's sketches portraying the humour and coolness that such
critical conditions create are in no particular exaggerated. A
certain building, prominently situated in a fairly large town, within
easy range of the enemy guns, was being used as B.H.Qs. It afforded
accommodation for about twelve officers and as many other ranks. The
outskirts of the town had been subjected to severe shelling during the
day. Towards evening the shelling ceased, but commenced again about
midnight; on this occasion the shells were directed more to the centre
of the town. Pieces of iron and a hail of shrapnel descended upon the
roof of our billet. All were awakened by the noise. From different
parts of the building the same query was advanced: 'Are you all
right?' Then a hurried conference was held, and the C.O. decided that
discretion was the better part of valour. With the aid of electric
torches we collected our blankets, etc., and descended to the cellar.
Everybody was cheerful. The report of the guns somewhere along the
enemy's lines was heard distinctly, and we would wait for the swish of
the shells as they hurtled through the air. Almost simultaneously
with the swish would come the crash followed by the sound of breaking
glass and falling bricks, and involuntarily we exclaimed in chorus,
'Another one in.' We thought of the poor devils who may have been in
the vicinity where the shell exploded, and various expressions of
sympathy escaped from our lips. Almost immediately on reaching the
cellar, there was a terrific explosion, and one of the chimneys of the
building crashed into the cellar. Gradually we lost interest and
became almost indifferent to what was going on. One by one we repaired
to our improvised beds on the floor. Sometimes one would have
difficulty in wooing the goddess of sleep, and his persistency in
asking questions was exceeded only by the annoyance experienced by
those to whom the questions were addressed. The usual question of the
sleepless individual is 'Where did that one land?' and the answer with
some accompanying adjectives is invariably, 'I am more concerned about
where the next one will land.'
[Illustration: With the aid of electric torches ... we descended to
the cellar.]
The enemy generally commences shelling these places at the close of
day, and the men have described these operations as 'The Hun's evening
hate.' On one occasion a certain village was being strafed. Several
men of a certain battalion were on the road at the time. They quickly
availed themselves of the shelter of a cellar. The building was hit
several times. Shortly after the bombardment commenced a man leading a
mule was observed, coming along the road. He was invited to take
shelter in the cellar. The invitation was accepted with alacrity. The
mule was tethered to the window-sill, and the man was soon in their
midst. Shells continued to burst overhead and round about. The
newcomer proved to be a blessing. He soon had the men laughing despite
the noise and danger. When a shell burst in close proximity to the
building, he evinced great concern for the safety of his mule. 'My
poor old "donk,"' he would exclaim; 'there goes his tail.' Another
burst: 'There goes his hind-quarters.' It seemed impossible for the
mule to escape injury or death. Turning to his companions he
declared that he would carry part of that mule back. If his head were
left intact he would gather the harness and wrap it round the head and
carry it back to the lines, and if the O.C. transport asked where the
'donk' was, he would say, 'Shot from under me, sir.' Suddenly the
shelling ceased, and they emerged from their shelter. The mule's
master was the first outside. He fully expected to see but a
blood-stain on the spot where he had left the beast, but to his great
surprise and satisfaction he saw the mule serenely nibbling at the
grass growing alongside the building. The old 'donk' had not sustained
an injury. To say that he was proud to lead a whole mule back to his
quarters instead of having to carry only its head, is an altogether
inadequate way of describing his actual feelings.
[Illustration: 'Did you hear that one, Bill?']
'Did you hear that one, Bill?' asked one man of another who had come
along the shell-swept road rather hurriedly.
'Yes,' replied the nearly exhausted man, 'I heard it twice; once when
it passed me, and again when I passed it.'
MESSINES
JUNE 7, 1917
A shell-struck souvenir of hellish war,
A monument of man's stupendous hate!
Can this have been a Paradise before,
Now up-blown, blasted, drear and desolate?
Aye, once with smiling and contented face
She reigned a queen above a charming place.
But soon the sport of leaders and of kings
Transformed her to a resting-place for guns,
Rude scars across her breasts the worker flings,
To shelter countless hordes of hell-born Huns,
The while, upon the next opposing crest,
Our men died gamely as they did their best.
And thus for years, with cold, relentless zeal,
With fiendish science both sides fought and watched,
From loop-holes or from clouds which half conceal,
Or in deep tunnels all their skill was matched.
On sentry in the firebay, or the hov'ring 'plane,
Mining and countermining yet again.
And far behind such scenes, great engineers
Pondered o'er problems without parallel.
And planned with wisdom of a thousand years,
To blow the other to eternal Hell.
Their calculations left no callous scheme untried,
To slaughter hundreds of the other side.
But hush! the whole machinery's complete,
All plans are folded and the great work's done,
The work of building up to cause defeat--
The lever's pulled, and, lo! a new work has begun.
The task of falling on a shattered foe,
And doing things undreamed-of years ago.
Hush! hark! A mighty rumbling roar breaks thro',
And see! Her crest-line leaps into a flame,
The foul disease within her bowels she blew
High into the air to rid her of her shame;
In one huge vomit she now flings her filth,
Far o'er the country in a powdered 'tilth.'
And so the vassals of a fiendish foe
Are scattered far and wide into a dust.
Those who have revelled as they wreaked red woe,
A shattered sample of their own blood-lust.
Whilst from our hill-crest and its catacomb,
A new life comes a-pouring from the tomb.
Eager, and burning with the zeal of youth,
Our Second Anzacs sprang from out the ground,
Bound by their mateships and their love of truth,
The Third Division its new soul has found;
Straight o'er the top amidst a hail of shell
To their objective which they knew so well.
On, on, thro' poison gas and rattling roar,
Past ulc'rous craters, blackened foul and deep,
These comrades 'stuck' as ne'er they had before.
And kept together in their rushing sweep;
Deafened and rattled, hung up in the wire,
Helping each other thro' such fearful fire.
On still until they reached the furthest goal,
There to dig in and hold the new-won line.
By linking up each torn and shattered hole--
By no means easy, but their grit was fine--
They fought and worked like demons till the dawn,
Harried and pestered by the 'Kaiser's spawn.'
And, baffled from his gun-pits far away,
Low-down, well south, an angry foe doth roar,
He opens out again upon another day
And rakes the slope with shrapnel as before.
But only working parties on the top are found,
The rest, save A.M.C., are underground.
Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground,
But stranger still are unearthed from below;
Here many supermen may now be found,
Just watch those stretcher-bearers where _they_ go,
And see those parties bearing food and drink,
Past all those blizzard shells--then stand and think!
But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide;
Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all.
'Me mates? W'ere is my mates?' he plaintive cried,
'They's in that 'ole with ME when IT did fall.'
We took him to three huddled heaps near by,
But he roamed on as tho' he wished to die.
And as the sun's great light bursts o'er the scene,
_La Petit Douve_, one-time a sparkling stream,
Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has been
Past horrors thro' the night and _did not dream_.
For many days she'll, silent, strive to bear
Such human wreckage down a path once fair.
G.P. CUTTRISS and J.W. HOOD.
[Illustration: The illustrator feeling happy, yet looking 'board.']
[Illustration]
BILL THE BUGLER
I well remember when the subject of this sketch 'joined up.' He was
small of stature, and his general appearance was by no means
prepossessing. That he had seen a good deal of the world was very
evident, even to the most superficial observer. His language was
picturesque, though not profane. A few weeks sufficed to 'lick him
into shape,' and he presented a fairly tolerable figure in uniform. At
spinning yarns he was an adept, and at camp concerts could invariably
be depended upon for an item or two, always of a humorous nature.
Bill quickly established himself amongst the 'boys' as a general
favourite. This enviable position he still occupies. On account of
his duties as bugler requiring him to be one of the first up in the
morning, and one of the last to retire at night, he sought a change of
duty. He became a bandsman, then a stretcher-bearer, and eventually
was detailed to assist in a cook-house--in cook-house terminology an
'off-sider.'
Though Bill had as much military experience as most of us, we could
not think of him as a soldier. That our opinion of him was justified
the following incident will illustrate. A party of officers, including
a staff-major, was inspecting cooking and billeting arrangements in
our quarters. Bill, who happened to have a couple of hours off that
day, was strolling towards the party. He was in cook-house
attire--tunicless, his hat well back on his head, shirt-sleeves rolled
to the elbow, hands deep in his breeches pockets, a cigarette between
his lips. Regardless of the critical eyes which were focused upon him,
he sauntered leisurely towards the officers, and when in line with
them he nodded and said 'Good-day.' The officers stopped, and one of
them peremptorily inquired, 'Aren't you a soldier?' 'Oh, no,' he
replied; 'I'm D Company's cook!' His reply so amused the officers that
he was allowed to continue on his way without being reminded that as a
soldier he was required to salute all officers.