I believe we must have got nearly fifty yards without a casualty. But
it's hard to say. It wasn't light, you know; just a glimmering kind
of grayness. Not easy to spot casualties. The row, of course, was
deafening, and we were running like lamplighters. You remember our
practice stunts at home? Short rushes, and taking cover in folds of the
ground. "Remember your file of direction, Sir; dressin' by the right,"
and all that. Oh, the boys remembered it right enough. But, good Lord,
it wasn't much like Salisbury Plain, you know. We were going hell for
leather. You think you're going strong, and--Woosh! You've got your
face deep in porridge. Fallen in a shell hole. You trip over some
blame thing, and you turn a complete somersault, and you're on again,
wondering where your second wind is. Lord, you haven't a notion whether
you're hit or not.
I felt that smack on my left wrist, along with a dozen other smacks of
one sort and another, but I didn't know it was a wound for an hour or
more. All you thought about was trying to keep your rifle muzzle up,
and I guess the fellows behind must've thought a bit about not stickin'
us with their bayonets more'n they could help. I was shouting ----,
the local name of the regiment, you know. The boys like it. But my
Sergeant, who was close to me, was just yelling, "Down 'em, boys!" and
"Stick 'em! Stick 'em!" for all he was worth.
My lot were bound for the second line, you see. My No. 12 Platoon, with
thirteen of "D," were to look after cleaning up the Boche first line.
There was no real parapet left in that Boche front line. Their trench
was just a sort of gash, a ragged crack in the porridge. Where I was,
there was quite a bit of their wire left; but, do you know, one didn't
feel it a bit. You can judge a bit from my rags what it was like.
We went at it like fellows in a race charge the tape; and it didn't
hurt us any more. Only thing that worried us was the porridge and the
holes. Your feet sinking down make you feel you're crawling; making no
headway. I wish I could have seen a bit better. It was all a muddy blur
to me. But I made out a line of faces in the Boche ditch; and I know
I gave a devil of a yell as we jumped for those faces. Lost my rifle
there.
'Fraid I didn't stick my man, really, because my bayonet struck solid
earth. I just smashed my fellow. We went down into the muck together,
and another chap trod on my neck for a moment. Makes you think quick,
I tell you. I pulled that chap down on top of my other Boche, and just
took one good look to make sure he was a Boche; and then I gave him two
rounds from my revolver, with the barrel in his face. I think I killed
the under one too, but can't be sure.