Do you know what a night scare is? In our last H.Q. we were all dining
when suddenly there was a terrific outburst of rifle fire from our
lines. We went out into the road that passes the farm and stood there
in the pitch darkness, wondering. The fire increased in intensity until
every soldier within five miles seemed to be revelling in a lunatic
succession of "mad minutes." Was it a heavy attack on our lines? Soon
pom-poms joined in sharp, heavy taps--and machine guns. The lines
to the battalions were at the moment working feebly, and what the
operators could get through was scarcely intelligible. Ammunition
limbers were hurried up, and I stood ready to dart anywhere. For
twenty minutes the rifle-fire seemed to grow wilder and wilder. At
last stretcher-bearers came in with a few wounded and reported that
we seemed to be holding our own. Satisfactory so far. Then there were
great flashes of shrapnel over our lines; that comforted us, for if
your troops are advancing you don't fire shrapnel over the enemy's
lines. You never know how soon they may be yours. The firing soon died
down until we heard nothing but little desultory bursts. Finally an
orderly came--the Germans had half-heartedly charged our trenches but
had been driven off with loss. We returned to the farm and found that
in the few minutes we had been outside everything had been packed and
half-frightened men were standing about for orders.
The explanation of it all came later and was simple enough. The French,
without letting us know, had attacked the Germans on our right, and the
Germans to keep us engaged had made a feint attack upon us. So we went
back to dinner.
In modern war the infantryman hasn't much of a chance. Strategy
nowadays consists in arranging for the mutual slaughter of infantry
by the opposing guns, each general trusting that his guns will do the
greater slaughter. And half gunnery is luck. The day before yesterday
we had a little afternoon shoot at where we thought the German trenches
might be. The Germans unaccountably retreated, and yesterday when we
advanced we found the trenches crammed full of dead. By a combination
of intelligent anticipation and good luck we had hit them exactly----
From these letters you will be able to gather what mood we were in
and something of what the brigade despatch rider was doing. After the
first day the Germans ceased shrapnelling the fields round the farm
and left us nearly in peace. There I met Major Ballard, commanding the
15th Artillery Brigade, one of the finest officers of my acquaintance,
and Captain Frost, the sole remaining officer of the Cheshires. He was
charming to me; I was particularly grateful for the loan of a razor,
for my own had disappeared and there were no despatch riders handy
from whom I could borrow.
Talking of the Cheshires reminds me of a story illustrating the
troubles of a brigadier. The general was dining calmly one night after
having arranged an attack. All orders had been sent out. Everything
was complete and ready. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and in
walked Captain M----, who reported his arrival with 200 reinforcements
for the Cheshires, a pleasant but irritating addition. The situation
was further complicated by the general's discovery that M---- was
senior to the officer then in command of the Cheshires. Poor M---- was
not left long in command. A fortnight later the Germans broke through
and over the Cheshires, and M---- died where a commanding officer
should.