And We Go On (28 page)

It was nearly morning before we arrived in Gentelle Wood. Thousands of other soldiers were there, but all the wood was laid off in areas and each man stayed in his battalion square. Some of the men made shelters of branches and ground sheets, some tried to dig in. Tommy and I spread our beds on moss, lay down together and slept. Overhead the stars were twinkling. All around us was a hum, a murmur of voices and mild confusion. In the distance the tanks were still clanking and tractors were grinding. Farther away the guns were shelling in a spasmodic manner. Rumour had it that we were to join in an attack that would extend for twenty miles, that it was going to be a battle that would not be over until we had broken the Hun line. So we slept there together and dreamt of home.

The next day dawned bright and clear. Someone said it was Sunday and Giger wanted to know if there would be a church parade. Orders came for us to lie low, that there was to be no unnecessary movement. Tommy said that the army was improving. The fact that they did not fall us in and make us listen to the padre and officers sing “Fight the Good Fight,” showed that intelligence was beginning to seep into headquarters. He had changed. The impulsive headlong boy who was continually in hot water had become a background cynic. Only once that summer had I had difficulty
in curbing him. We were by a river where we could bathe each evening, and did. We also washed our shirts and socks and were cleaner than we had been any time previously. Yet headquarters did its stuff. We were forced to fall in and march about six miles over a hot, dusty road to baths, an old building where a huge pump was manipulated by one relay of men while the others stood inside in tubs and waited with bowed heads for seventeen drops of cold water. After these had trickled down the spine we were to get torn, wrinkled, buttonless shirts in place of our clean ones and after dressing go around and wring seventeen exquisite drops on the bent bodies waiting their turn. After this ritual was duly carried out, we marched back over the hot dusty road and when dismissed went straight to the river and washed away the sweat and dust and were clean again. Our shirts that we had scrubbed and mended and sewed buttons on were gone, but we mended the ones we had received in their places and expressed our emotions in choruses that would have moved an adjutant to tears. Tommy had almost gone wild. His issue had been a garment composed of two pieces. The front of the shirt was flimsy cotton, the back of material of which horse blankets are usually made. “Old Bill” told him it was for use in draughty buildings; all that was necessary was to keep your back to the opening. Tommy, fortunately, was able to “salvage” a shirt from one of the batmen.

The sergeants were busy all that day. They distributed Mills bombs, and bandoliers, and field dressings, and ground flares, everything but the shovels and sandbags we had got in the Salient. Then we had dinner. The day was clear and sunny. Every time an aeroplane wheeled overhead we cringed and looked up, but our airmen were on the job and no black-crossed hawks were sighted. Poker games were in progress. Other men wrote letters. Some sat together, chatting a little, mostly busy with their thoughts. Then, at dark, water bottles were filled and all was ready.

I was called by the sergeant-major and told that I must go to the assembly point, learn the route, and return and guide the company in. I left everything but my gas mask and went with the other scouts and guides. It was almost a mile to where we were moving, a deep trench south of the Amiens-Roye road. After finding the position “D” company would occupy I hurried back with a man from headquarters, and after getting into my harness joined the captain and led the way. It had turned bitterly cold and the men were impatient, but the great rustle of much movement all along
the front soon stilled them. There was something in the night that seemed pregnant with sudden violence, as if at any time some smashing, crashing chaos might envelope all that area. Everyone grew silent, never complaining as we threaded in and out in snaky fashion to avoid other companies, and we were too amazed to say anything when we saw field guns being wheeled to postions just behind our trench. There were no pits for them or camouflage, and it showed just what the expectations were.

It was almost three o'clock when we were finally in our line, and I had been walking since eight in the evening. Some kind hero attached himself to my rations while I was on my first journey forward but I did not worry greatly; there would be plenty of chances to salvage for myself later. Zero hour had been set at 4.20 and every one grew tense. We knew that we were not going into the attack until three hours later, but were to leave our position, go down the slope in front and cross the river Luce. After that we would be in the fighting.

As I waited, standing on a firestep, watching the stars fade, Christensen came to me and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Bird,” he said. “I'm going to find out to-day which of us is right.”

He and I had argued about the hereafter, and I had tried hard to convince him everything, even to a blade of grass, cried out that there was a God who governed creation. But … “What's got into you,” I said. “You'll not get hit.”

“I'll be killed,” he said, smiling in a way that startled me. He didn't seem the least frightened, but was as matter-of-fact as if his leave had come through. “An hour ago,” he said, “something came to me. It was as if every sound in the world was stilled at once, as if there was nothing more for me to hear, and I knew what it meant. I'm not the least bit afraid, and I'll be satisfied if it comes quick.” It was useless to try to console him, he didn't want sympathy. Not one man who had mentioned the same thing to me had acted the same as he did. He almost seemed glad, and when I pointed out that, if he were right, there was some power beyond the visible that imparted information, he partially admitted it, and said that he was sorry he had not tried to learn something of religion, to become a Christian, but that he was not the kind to squeal at the last five minutes. Had the right kind of man been there to talk to him I know that in the last half hour he might have changed the Dane, but I could not do it, and I shook hands with him, as convinced as he that he would never see another day.

After he had gone, Tommy came and stood beside me, and it came. One instant we were speaking in low tones, watching a red flicker of artillery away on the right and the next heart beat the very earth seemed to quiver. One great sheet of flame seemed to leap along that twenty-mile front and the roar that made the trench tremble was so fused that we could not distinguish single explosions. It was a stupendous thing. We were shaken, stunned, bewildered. For a moment we could not make ourselves heard, then, gradually, the barrage became more broken, and by shouting we could make ourselves understood. Some one touched me on the shoulder. I turned and there stood Eddie, from thirteen platoon. He reached for my hand and his face was deathly white. I gave him a hearty grip and shouted, “Good luck, old timer.”

He shook his head. “This is my last trip,” he called. I made no reply. What could I say? We stood together, watching the flashes, and then he moved away, slowly, down to his men.

A short time later we filed down the slope to cross the river.

CHAPTER VIII

Parvillers

As we went towards the river black shrapnel began to burst overhead with snarling menace, and on the left there were sudden geysers of soil and smoke. The noise of the barrage prevented any conversation and each man was tingling so that he could hardly keep from shaking. It was interesting to watch the faces of the men. Some were pale and drawn as they thought of the perils ahead, some expressed horror, for certain individuals, like the Professor, lived every event twice. Others were simply anxious about their rifles and bombs.

There was a stone bridge crossing the river but it had been preserved for the use of heavy traffic, and we did not mind such an order. It was very probable that old Fritz knew the exact location of the bridge and could make crossings precarious. The engineers had gone forward and placed pontoon crossings of boats with bath mats spiked across them, rather fragile-looking structures, and we had to cross in single file. The long hours of tramping and going without sleep had been a strain and I had had nothing to eat. The others had had a hurried breakfast just before the barrage opened. When I got out on the swaying, dipping bath mats and saw the muddy river swirling just inches below me I was almost dizzy, and could not have hurried. But the Germans were now shelling all the stream and had wrecked the bridge to our left, used by another company, and every one was moving painfully slow. Shells rained on all the bridge area, but it was a marshy spot and partly under water so that the explosions did little more than shower us with black filth.

When we were finally across a thick mist had settled over everything and we could not see one hundred yards ahead. Word was passed along
that the objective was a hill, Hill 104. We entered a wooded area and found a trench where we stayed for some time, as our jump-off was not until 8.20 a.m. One lone shell came quite near as we waited there and wounded the man who had lost his nerve at Passchendale. He had been very nervous all the while and when we saw he had a “blighty” we felt relieved. As the sun grew stronger and began to clear the mist we saw more trees ahead and soon were filing to them. It was a sparse fringe of wood, and a brick wall came a distance from the left. Some of the men rushed to its cover. The rest of us took shelter behind tree trunks. Wheee-bang. One shell came through the limbs of the trees where Tommy and I were standing and exploded about thirty yards behind us. We looked around and saw a man pitch to earth. It was Eddie. He had “got his ticket” before we saw a German – he had had a clear vision.

We all got near the trees. Just to the left of me I saw Ted cowering behind a big bole. He had his rifle butt on the ground and as he peered around to watch the ground in front he, in some manner, discharged the weapon. His arm was resting over the muzzle. He screamed in agony and we rushed to him to find that he had a fearful wound. There had been a muzzle cap on the Lee-Enfield and he had had it turned over in place. It had been blown through the flesh and muscles, leaving a gaping rent one could thrust his fingers in. We tied a torniquet around his arm and twisted it with a stick, then bandaged the wound. He went white and sank to the ground just as we were signalled to advance.

We went up a long slope. Three Germans rose from the tall grass and shot at us before turning to run. Sparky dropped to his knees and sniped one of them very neatly, his first kill. He was exuberant and raced up the hill to look at his victim. Another of the trio fell before he reached the crest, potted by several bullets, but the third man vanished from view.

On top of the slope we looked down on a short length of grain that had been sown in that forward position. A deep ravine lay just beyond and we could see camouflage that told of gun emplacements. We were now in extended order and everyone was in great spirits. We were back of the first trench, had seen dead Germans sprawled there, very few of our own men among them, and the only boche sighted were on the run. As I rushed along, anxious to reach the ravine, a German suddenly popped up in the grain a few feet ahead of me. He rose so suddenly that I shot without taking aim. Experience had taught me to carry my rifle under my right arm,
steadied by my left, a finger on the trigger, and only a pressure was required to beat out the other fellow.

As the German dropped he gave a ghastly groan and then I saw that he was a wizened old chap with steel-rimmed spectacles and a scraggly beard.

Probably an old character like Peter, and all he had wished was to surrender. He had no weapons of any kind. I looked down at him and saw that the bullet had entered his lungs. He tried to get up and I wanted to stop and help him, but Tommy urged me to keep on. We plunged down into the valley. Three guns were there with the canvas covers still over them. A dugout entrance was just in front of me and smoke was coming from the pipe at the side of the stairway. Over on the left, about fifty yards away I saw the fleeing gunners get neatly captured by men of another company. The leader of the men in gray was a fat officer with an Iron Cross dangling over his paunch. He lost it very quickly.

Our officer was vastly excited. It was his first time “over” and he had a brain wave. Why not wheel the guns around and strafe the enemy? He yelled at us to seize on the sheels and exert our strength, but I had none to waste. The long rush up the slopes had been a dragging task and I was ready to collapse unless I could get something to eat. Young Russell saw the dugout and ran to it, yelling his find. The others paid no attention to him and I went over. Possibly a Heinie was waiting below with a ready Luger, possibly a cook was down there with breakfast ready. I went down the steps. It was a splendid dugout, very elaborate. A clock was ticking on a shelf, two tumbled beds contained the finest linen; but what caught my eye was a jumbled heap of female finery and dainty slippers under the bed. Some lady had evidently just flown.

On the table between the beds were several letters, some unopened, a big parcel not opened, and a pile of German newspapers. I grabbed the parcel and at the same time glanced at the stove. A pan of eggs was still sizzling. Two were too crisp to consume but the others were suitable for me, and there were sausages, a few bottles of beer, and black bread on shelves. We sat down and ate and drank in great style, and Russell found the coffee pot on the floor – full of nice hot coffee. We gorged ourselves and then I slit the parcel open. It contained a few candles, a silk handerkerchief, and a big cake covered with pink frosting. The address said it was from Berlin, so I cut the cake and handed Russell a healthy slice. He gobbled it down and I watched him anxiously while the clock ticked off
the minutes. “Do you feel all right?” I asked. “Jake,” he snorted. “Hand us another chunk.”

I did, and then cut a huge slice for myself. We took the rest upstairs and found the officer fuming. Earle and Sparky and a few more loyal lads were straining their muscles as they tried to heave one of the guns around. “Come here, you two,” the lieutenant yelled. “Give a hand.” We ignored him and passed the cake. Russell told the boys how I had him test it and there was a wild hoot. Then we went on over the hill in front and the officer followed. Some of the boys said he marked the guns with chalk in order to prove our capture of them.