B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (26 page)

Gradually the German gun-fire increases; the ‘stand to’ order brings us out below the parapet, while an enemy plane methodically surveys the position.

Around and above is a turmoil of noise; the mighty roar of dropping shells, the incessant rending crashes of the explosions, the scream and thud of whizz-bangs, and permeating all, the booming thunder of the guns. In this battering inferno of sound, we have to shout to make ourselves heard. The earth quivers continuously under the metallic flail.

Across the shattered soil behind our position, a barrage is falling, a vast unbroken curtain of spouting bursts, spraying up earth, smoke, and steel in a dark and furious barrier, half veiled by dense black fumes that writhe, heave, and trail upward in a mist of dirty grey. Heavy black shrapnel, storms of whizz-bangs add to the deafening tumult. Earth, mud, and metal shower into the trench, the parapet rains little avalanches of dirt with each vicious impact, the air, shrill with flying metal, screeches with the added burden of intense bursts of machine-gun fire.

We strain fiercely into the mud of the trench wall, half deafened, mute. The Lewis-gun team beside me crouch below their deadly charge; it is tilted up ready to heave on the parapet; a drum is fixed for immediate firing.

For a few awful minutes the racking inferno swells to a frantic intensity; the air vibrates to the battering hurricane behind. It is as if trench and sky are rocking and reeling. The stench of shell fumes is heavy in the air. A stinging musty odour permeates the trench; the men around make swift motions, and peer like hideous goblins through the wide flat eyes of their gas-masks. Gradually the taint passes and with relief we rip off the heated rubber.

A minute later the man at the periscope gesticulates wildly and gives a high-pitched yell, and we scramble swiftly on to the fire-step.

I see the wide waste of shell-churned soil, the tattered wire, and, well over, a dark and far-flung line of grey-clad stormers; behind them others rising fast, apparently springing from the drab earth in knots and groups, spreading out, surging forward.

Simultaneously from our trench bursts a great roar of fire. I fire with fiercely jerking bolt, round after round merged into the immense noise. The squat Lewis gun is thrust over the parapet by my right shoulder, it leaps into stabbing bursts of sound, that makes my deafened ears ring again and again. The rifles spurt hotly, the Lewis gun ejects whirling streams of cartridge cases that heap thickly by my feet. I breathe whiffs of expended gases escaping from the gun.

I see the first line of attack appear to wither, men reeling, stumbling, disappearing into the blasted contour of the earth. Others, in loose formation, springing swiftly erect, coming grimly forward. With each short rush the rapid rifle-fire rises to a crescendo of savage concentration. From the right, but now hardly audible in the stupendous noise, comes the crashing of bombs.

In front, before the furious fire, the German rush has died into the earth again.

We subside quickly below the parapet as some flanking machine guns commence to sweep the trench top. My rifle is hot to the touch. Above the parapet is flayed by a constant stream of bullets.

A surge of wounded presses down our section of the trench, limping, staggering in a steady stream, dazed, mud-fouled, bloodstained, faces blackened with cordite fumes.

An officer, gripping his Webley, appears amid another bunch of wounded. He bellows hastily for bombs, and returns again to the right. A few of us are told off to collect all the bombs we can, and we gather armfuls of captured German egg bombs, mixed with the heavy Mills; they are passed up, and we hastily search for more.

Suddenly, I hear faintly a medley of confused shouts. I see the men on the fire-step firing fast again, and up the trench they are firing both to front and flank. I am swiftly immersed in another rush of wounded, that pours along in urgent haste, despite their wounds. Another group rushes down, some men hoisting along badly hit pals, a volley of bomb explosions bursts closer to us.

A shrill alarm yell comes from the parapet, a few more wounded push swiftly past, half crouching. I see bomb smoke above the parapet to the right, I see men leap back from the fire-step and merge with another little rush of confused wounded. The platoon sergeant waves his arm urgently, ‘Down the trench!’

Beyond him I see others leaping hurriedly and climbing over the parades, two officers scrambling on the mound above a shaft, and I see the Company Officer’s revolver spurt twice.

Four or five smashing explosions disrupt the earth of the parapet, one bomb flies over and bursts on the parados. We crouch, wounded and unwounded, and run the gauntlet of the final volley of bombs. Where the trench curves sharply to the left I catch another haunting impression – a shaft crowded with the helpless wounded, pale, anxious faces looking upward, a man trying to crawl out, guarded by a stooping stretcher bearer. The trench divides, we plunge into an opening, pass a side trench, turn traverses. The air above is swept by machine-gun fire, the shell fall is still in thundering flood.

The man in front has a bomb splinter in his back, the small rent is surrounded by a red stain. His boot heel is torn, too, and blood oozes out with every step. We turn another traverse and come into a wide and empty trench in which long pools of water gleam dully.

We do not know where we are. Two men only are behind me, the sergeant and the three men following him have disappeared. We plough through the mud of this deserted line. At a block we must perforce cross a few yards of open ground; we do it at intervals, leaping prodigiously, to the accompaniment of severe machine-gun fire. The barrage fire has died away, but outside our narrow route shells still crash. We finally emerge into a trench fully manned by a strange battalion.

A day or so later the remnants are gathered together, and we line up again in Havrincourt Wood. Two short lines only, for ‘A’ Company is about twenty-five strong, and the battalion musters 100.

A few yards away, under the dripping trees, lies a heap of opened parcels, and a sergeant is apportioning the litter of home-made cakes, cigarettes, and sweets that have no owners.

Private William Reginald Dick joined Army February 7th, 1917. Posted to 3rd Battalion Gloucestershire Regt. France, September 1917, 2/6th Gloucestershire Regt., 61st Division, at Arras. Cambrai December 1917. January 1918 St. Quentin, February 1918 transferred to 2/5th Battalion of the same Division; held outposts in front of St. Quentin until March 21st. German offensive, March 21st. In action throughout the whole of the second Battle of the Somme; survivors relieved near Amiens. Battle of the Lys, April 12th, 1918, invalided from infantry June 1918. Posted to forward area Labour Company, and attached to Australian Tunnelling Company, and Engineers in the Loos and La Bassée sectors
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I was born in November 1898, so that when war was declared I was at school. I joined the School Cadet Battalion in 1914 and was appointed corporal.

At Whitsun, 1915, I told the O.C. cadets I was going to join up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘How old do you want to be?’

We fixed things between us, and armed with a letter from him, I presented myself, after attestation, to the colonel of an infantry battalion which was just being formed, and on the strength of the letter I was appointed a lance-corporal and told to get my hair cut. I did so and afterwards saw the regimental sergeant-major, who put me through my paces and told me to get my hair cut. In ten weeks I had been made sergeant.

We did the usual training in England until May 1916, then went to France as a complete division. Some of the N.C.O.s were sent up the line for instruction with a Scottish battalion at Ploegsteert. What a lovely war that was! In complete daylight we marched up to and through the wood to find a network of trenches and sand-bags. Still in daylight, but now through the trenches, one was able to wander up to the front line.

During instruction with the Scottish, I was sent out on a wiring party. We were subjected to machine-gun fire, but oh, blissful ignorance, I kept upright, a perfectly good 6 feet of human target!

‘Git doon, ye fool!’, and, crash! my legs were knocked from under me and I fell flat on my face with a good coil of barbed wire in my stomach. The Scot explained and marvelled at my ignorance.

Our time in the line was occupied with patrols, wiring parties, and minor offences. The minor offences consisted of sending over a few rifle grenades, sniping with periscope rifles, and generally asking for trouble. We were not to rest too long, however. Time and ‘Intelligence’ decreed that a raid had to be made on the German line. Volunteers were asked for and I asked the company commander if I could go as the N.C.O. The major had seen service in Gallipoli, and was not nearly so bloodthirsty as we new soldiers, and he promptly asked me if I wanted to end my young life. Being facetious, I answered that I thought there was a war on. I had my wish and the raiding party was sent back from the line to prepare.

The right of the raid was perfect so far as weather was concerned, but something went wrong. Either the wire had not been cut in front of the enemy trench, or it had not been cut in the right place, or the Germans had been successful in filling the gap. In any case, we did not get through and luckily enough the raiding party suffered but few casualties, although there was quite a number in the company from the barrage put down by the enemy. One of the casualties was the company sergeant-major, whose place I had to take before I was eighteen.

From ‘Plug Street’ we went slightly north to Messines Ridge, and spent about thirty days in the line and in supports without getting a change of clothing. This was a little more like the war we had read about at home and less like a rather dangerous picnic.

About this time the great Somme attack started, and we were chafing because we could not get there. We were still joyfully ignorant of the real conditions, but we were soon to experience them. The Division was moved to the shambles.

On the first day the tanks went into action, the Division went over and this was our real baptism. We had marched all one afternoon and part of the night to reach the front line, which consisted of a tape along the shell holes. What a contrast! From the comparative quiet of a proper line and minor shelling, to come to this shell-torn tape line, absolute din, rain of shells and machine-gun bullets. We had had our instructions, however, which were, to attack at zero hour. We composed ourselves as best we could for the rest of the night and at dawn the attack began.

During our transit from Messines to the Somme the major had impressed upon me the necessity for removing all maps and documents from his person as soon as he was hit. I endeavoured to ‘pooh-pooh’ the idea; but he knew. How he knew only God can tell; within two minutes of the start he was hit, and badly. I heard later he lost a leg, and I expect he was thankful to get away with that.

To carry on with the attack. I took the maps, etc., and looked round for another of the company officers, but could see none. There were only two, and I found out that one of those had gone out about the same time as the major. I had to keep the papers and carry on.

The tanks were at once a delight and a disappointment. They were fairly easily ditched, but at the same time they were impregnable. I saw a party of the enemy clamber on to one in motion and endeavour to put it out of action, after firing at it point blank with a machine gun and throwing bombs from about 5 yards range. I saw another run along a thick belt of wire in a sunken road, and so clear the way for us. Yet another spotted a machine gun in a house in Flers; this fellow wandered up the road, did a sharp turn, and ambled through the house.

Shortly afterwards I had one of the best meals I can remember. We had been attacking since dawn; it was now about 1 p.m. I produced a hunk of cheese and some biscuits. Another fellow scrounged a huge Spanish onion. That onion made the meal.

By this time we had secured a couple of miles of enemy territory, and while going through the doorway of a building I was hit. It was only a shrapnel bullet but it felt as though half the house had fallen on me. I was bowled over and, on trying to get up, found my leg would not move. I had by now lost at least half my bravado, and was sent back, having to hop and crawl as best I could; but eventually I did get there, and in due course arrived at a base hospital. Our losses must have been fairly heavy, but those of the Germans were at least three times as great. We seemed to take hordes of prisoners, and numbers were left behind waiting burial, either proper or accidental.

In due course I arrived back in England to experience the joys of hospital life. The men in blue were well looked after. Even towards the end of 1916, after two years, the hospitality of the general public was astounding.

Until the end of June 1917 I was convalescent at the regimental depot and at reserve battalion. The application for a commission, which I had made in the early part of 1916, before going to France, was then entertained, and I was sent to an officers’ cadet battalion at Oxford. Four months were spent there preparing for the examination, at which I was successful. I was granted a commission in my old regiment and returned to the same reserve battalion.

After a short time at the depot, I was sent to France to join a very depleted battalion, in the early days of January 1918. This battalion was temporarily under the command of a major from another regiment, and I regret to say he was not at all popular. Being fed-up with him, another subaltern and myself applied for transfer to the Flying Corps.

The first part of our time was spent in the line in the northern part of France. When we took over, it was deep in snow and we held a string of outposts on the eastern side of a stream. The first trench patrol I did, I spent most of my time in the stream. There was only one way to get to the sentries and if one deviated from the narrow path by so much as a foot, it usually meant one had to remove one’s waders to empty out the water.

In January, in this part of the line, the war was not waged very furiously. The trench mortar batteries used to come up and let off a few rounds, then go back. We were left to patch up the trenches after the usual replies from the ‘Minnie’ brigade. Those Minenwerfers! I shall never forget their soul-destroying qualities.