Those Who Fought for Us

by D. Allen Henry

  Chapter 7

  All for Naught

  Along the Somme River, France – June 23, 1916

  Robert had by now been back in France for nearly a month, but this time he had been assigned to the Somme. He had no idea why he had been transferred back to the Somme. Under normal circumstances, he might have concluded that an officer with his frontline experience was needed to plug gaps when others with command experience were killed or incapacitated. But of late he had begun to sense a pattern. Over the course of the preceding months, it seemed that wherever combat was concentrated along the front, he was intentionally transferred there.

  He therefore experienced a sinking feeling when he received word on this occasion that he was wanted at battalion headquarters, something that of late had occurred far too often. Normally, he would have been happy to be out of the trenches, if only for a few hours, but something about this particular occasion made him suspect that this meeting was not of the normal variety.

  Upon his arrival at the command post, Colonel Everett exclaimed, “Good. Here he is, we can get started now, gentlemen.” From his vantage point Robert could see no less than twenty other officers, thereby causing him still further alarm.

  Colonel Everett now cleared his throat and announced, “Gentlemen, this is top secret. Don’t tell anyone until oh-four hundred on the First of July. We’re attacking at first light that day. Over the course of the next week, we shall be provided with an effective artillery barrage that should destroy the first line of barbed wire, thereby opening the enemy’s lines to our offensive. Men, this is not an isolated attack such as those we are all quite used to - the ones that always fail. We shall be attacking across a two hundred mile-wide front. This promises to be the most massive assault since the advent of the Western Front two years ago. And this time things will be different.

  “We shall deploy these newfangled tanks to support the assault. As I’m certain you are well aware, tanks are designed to go through mud, foxholes, and trenches, so I wouldn’t be concerned about them coming up short like others we’ve seen on the front lines.

  “In addition, we have word the Germans are deploying a new kind of chemical weapon. As a result, we will be receiving new gas masks over the next week. Make sure your men are all trained in their proper utilization. Understood?” Surveying his audience, Colonel Everett was met with dejected glances, accentuated by deafening silence.

  Hearing no objection, he commanded, “Alright, gentlemen, get some rest. You’re going to need it. Dismissed.”

  ANZAC Field Hospital on the Somme – Three Days Later

  Elizabeth trudged into the tent, the torpid heat emanating from within pummeling her like a boiling hot towel. Removing her bloodstained nurse’s waistcoat, she collapsed onto her bunk in apparent exhaustion. “God, will this war never end?” she inquired to no one in particular.

  “I feel the same way, Elizabeth. Try not to think about it,” Margaret responded wearily from her own bed nearby.

  “I can’t help it,” Elizabeth murmured, “That private, whatever his name is, the one in the last bunk on the left - he died a short while ago. I want to hurl something every time one of them dies, Margaret. God, you’d think by now I would have grown immune to it, but it hurts like hell, just like the very first one I held in my arms, as he slipped away. Private Baker, his name was.” She halted momentarily, lost in her own memories, and suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, God, I just realized, the one that died today - I didn’t even know his name! Oh, God, Margaret, what’s happening to us?”

  From beneath an overlain hand Margaret’s muffled voice suggested, “Elizabeth, you’re exhausted. Get some sleep.”

  Refusing to let go, Elizabeth exclaimed dejectedly, “I know, I AM exhausted, but despite that, some nights I can’t even close my eyes,” and at this, she rolled over on her side and murmured, “If I fall asleep, don’t wake me. Maybe I’ll just never wake up. Perhaps I’ll drift up to the clouds, and float way in the middle of the night. God, that sounds really wonderful. I can’t believe – I actually wanted to come back to the front!”

  At this somber soliloquy, Margaret could think of no retort whatsoever, for in truth, she had felt the same way so many times she’d lost count. “How,” she thought to herself, “Are we going to get through this war?”

  Late Afternoon – July 1, 1916

  Robert huddled within the trench, exhaustion gripping him from head to foot. “How much more daylight?” he wondered to himself. At least two hours more, and in that time, perhaps they could push the enemy another few hundred yards.

  The offensive had begun well, the artillery signaling the initiation right on schedule at four in the morning. An hour later, the sun by then having risen well into the sky, the assault had commenced. Robert had pushed his company across no-man’s land, finding that the enormous labyrinth of barbed wire, though by no means destroyed by the artillery barrage, was sufficiently damaged to allow the troops to break through. They had burst forth, overrunning the German defensive positions within minutes. Unfortunately, the Germans had succeeded in escaping to the rear, expertly covering their retreat. The toll on the attacking forces had been horrendous, the Germans begrudging each and every surrendered inch with the loss of British lives.

  How far had they managed to move on this, the opening day of the offensive? Robert couldn’t be sure, but he felt certain that they had advanced at least half a mile. They had moved so far in a single day that the trench he was now crouched within had clearly not been used by frontline troops in some time, there being no vestiges of human consumption, no duckboards, no empty shell casings. Living in such squalid circumstances for months on end, one grew a sort of sixth sense about these things.

  For the first time since the Marne, the Western Front seemed to be moving, if only less than a mile. Would the lives lost today be worth the advance? He had no idea, but of one thing he was certain – this type of offensive could not be sustained for long.

  “All right, Sergeant Shillings, how many lost today?” he queried to his aide.

  “Not sure, sir. I’ve confirmed eight dead, another twelve injured and out of action. That leaves, let me see, I count seventy-four troops still in action,” the sergeant reported, “At this rate, there will be no company left by week’s end, sir.”

  “Alright, Sergeant,” Robert responded and, scribbling something on a piece of notepaper, he commanded, “Get Private Wilson to take this note to Battalion Headquarters, wherever that is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shillings responded.

  A few moments later the sergeant returned, at which point Robert instructed, “Alright, sergeant, tell the men to prepare for another advance. We have two more hours of daylight, and we have been ordered to keep moving. We are still several hundred yards from our objective.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant responded, thereafter moving down the line to relay the command.

  Five minutes later Captain Sutherland climbed out of the trench, followed by his rapidly shrinking company. Enemy gunfire commenced immediately, signaling that although the Germans were in full retreat, they had not by any means fled the battlefield. As the company crawled forward, Robert felt the sting of tiny fragments, here and there pinging against his helmet.

  “This is insane!” he thought to himself.

  But suddenly, against all logic Sergeant Shillings raised up and exhorted the troops, “Come on, boys, we can take that next line of trenches! Let’s go!” At this, the troops rose up and charged. The bullets immediately began flying in every direction, Robert screaming anxiously, “Get down! Get down, sergeant!”

  But to no avail. Sergeant Shillings immediately took a hit and staggered to the ground. The remaining troops nonetheless continued their lunge forward, despite the rapidly spreading gunfire. For his part, Robert circled round an enormous shell hole and, grasping the sergeant by one arm, he shouted, “Are you hit bad, sergeant?”

  “
Naw sir,” the sergeant responded dismissively, “I just fell down. Got to get to my feet,” but it was obvious that he was indeed hit, for he collapsed back to the ground immediately upon standing. Robert tugged him up yet again, commanding, “Lean on me, soldier! All we have to do is make it fifty feet further and we’ll be under cover of that next row of trenches!” At this, he tugged Sergeant Shillings to his feet, the two struggling forward as best they could on three collective legs. Just as they reached the protection of the trench line, Robert himself took a hit, falling forward into the deep trench with such impact that he was knocked unconscious.