by C. M. Harald
He made off at a trot when he saw the first winking light from the low-lying blockhouse to the left, shortly followed by the rat-a-tat sound of a carefully managed machine gun, firing in short bursts to conserve ammunition and ensure accuracy. Even further to the left another machine gun started up, while he could hear voices in front of him shouting in German. The noise of his own blood rushed through his ears as he ran around an uncut cluster of wire, slipping on the loose, and uneven, ground. He held his rifle ready to shoot, but there were no obvious targets in the open, although a few single winks of light started to appear along the enemy parapet as the German riflemen reached their positions and opened fire.
Marsh did not look to his sides to see what was going on, but he could hear his squad mates advancing with him. Somewhere Taff was swearing, a constant stream of profanity as if enough words would create him a bullet-proof shield. Screams started to come from his left where he knew the machine gun bullets were tearing into the advancing troops. There were even small explosions around them as the enemy responded to their advance with mortars.
A close explosion made Marsh drop to the floor, immediately scrambling into a large water-logged shell hole. Within seconds he was joined by the rest of his squad, miraculously intact, although Taff had changed the focus of his swearing to how he had bloodied his hand on a strand of barbed wire. All of them fit in the crater, their feet wet from the pool of water at the centre.
'We can't go back out there.' Wells shouted as several bullets cracked overhead.
'If we stay here, there big guns will get us when they start firing.' Matthews said, moving across the crater to the side nearest the enemy.
'You're right Tom.' Scott peaked over the edge of the shell hole before taking command, 'Davies and Morgan, you're going to get up there and give us covering fire. Fire low over the enemy trenches, I doubt you'll see anything to hit, but it'll keep their heads down. Everyone else, we get out and charge the remaining distance.' He looked at Davies and Morgan, 'When you two have emptied your rifles, reload quickly and follow us.' Taking in the rest of the squad he said, 'When we're in the trench, use whatever you can, even your entrenching tools. We'll head along the trench towards the blockhouse as quickly as we can. I'll cover our rear with a few grenades. Questions?' He looked at them each in turn. There were no questions.
'Ready everyone?' Scott asked when they were all in position along the edge of the crater.
At Scott's nod, Davies and Morgan leapt to the top of the crater and commenced firing. It was not aimed, but was quick and would keep the defender's heads down in front of them. Without pausing, the rest of the men were out of the shell hole. Someone was shouting in terror, not pain, as they sprinted the short distance to the German trench. As they closed, Scott threw a grenade further up the line to deter any relief for the defenders from that direction.
In seconds, Marsh was there. He jumped over the parapet and fell into the trench, landing awkwardly, but not injuring himself. It was at that point that he realised that he was also shouting, screaming even, as a German soldier turning to face him. His rifle already pointing at the man, Marsh fired a single shot which hit the German in the shoulder launching him into the trench wall. Marsh was already up and charging the enemy with his bayonet leading the way. As the German slid down onto the fire step, Marsh thrust the bayonet into his chest, the grate of bone on the blade transmitted along the length of the rifle. He automatically followed his bayonet drill and the German was dead by the time he pulled the bayonet out.
There was not enough time to reload, or even pay much attention. There was simply too much going on around him. Marsh set off running to the end of the zig in the trench, seeing that the rest of his squad were in the process of finishing off the Germans who had originally occupied this stretch of trench. His only conscious thought was to wonder why there were so few Germans in the line, compared to the numbers the British always seemed to deploy. Stopping short of the bend in trench, Marsh went down on one knee, worked the bolt on his rifle to reload it and then pointed it so that he would be able to shoot any reinforcements running around the corner. He briefly noted how much the bloodied bayonet at the end of the long rifle was shaking before Wells leaned round him and threw grenade around the corner.
A crump and a scream announced the detonation of the grenade, while the squad advanced into the next length of the trench, shooting and stabbing as they went. Again, Marsh noted that there were not a great many Germans defending the trench. In less than a minute the next stretch of trench had been cleared and again Marsh was positioned to attack around the next zag in the line when three Germans ran around the corner, their own bayonets ready. Instinctively Marsh shot, taking one down, however, the other two were on him in an instant. He parried one thrust from the pair of enemy bayonets with the wood of his rifle, but the second German managed to slam the rifle against the trench wall forcing him to drop the weapon. Marsh grabbed at a piece of wood lying next to him and used it to stop the next thrust from the Germans, the bayonet getting stuck in the wood, which was pulled out of Marsh's hands. Before panic could set in, one of the enemy dropped at the same time as there was a loud bang next to his ear. Wells rushed past as the remaining German took flight back around the corner.
Marsh picked up his rifle, well aware of how close he had come to death. He was not prepared to let his saviour get too far ahead of him, the favour may soon need returning. The next stretch of trench was connected to the blockhouse. It was deserted apart from the German Wells was chasing. The man slipped and Wells was on him in no time, stabbing repeatedly with the bayonet, no quarter given. Scott ran past, having seen his two men advance around the corner. The corporal ran up to the blockhouse and threw in two grenades through a gun slit. As Marsh and Wells caught up with their corporal, there were the muffled crumps of the grenades exploding and a shriek. The machine-gun in the blockhouse ceased firing the same instant and smoke drifted out of the firing slit. Wells passed another grenade to Scott, who pulled the pin and again dropped it through the firing slit. As soon as this one went off, Wells kicked down the door at the back of the blockhouse and ran inside.
'All dead!' Came the muffled shout from inside.
Marsh looked around him. His squad had caught up and were barricading the route behind them so that there could be no swift counter-attack along the trench. From the other side of the blockhouse, the remaining Germans were surrendering to the rest of the platoon. The company had taken the objective and it looked like his friends had come through relatively unscathed, excepting bruises and minor cuts from the hand-to-hand fighting. That certainly was not the case for the rest of the company, several walking wounded were busy securing the trench, and there were far fewer soldiers than should have been the case.
Everyone jumped as more British soldiers jumped unexpectedly over the parapet, clearly the follow-up wave.
'Time to pull back lads.' Shouted a sergeant who had somehow landed on both feet without the slightest effort, his experience showing in his every movement.
'Why Sarge? We've knocked out the block-house.' Scott asked.
'Cause there's been a change of plan. The attack further up the line didn't go as well and the Germans are readying a counter-attack. We're going to cover your arses while you get out of here. We'll also set a demolition charge so the bunker doesn't become a problem again. After that,' The sergeant shrugged in resignation, 'We pull back to. Now any more questions or can we get on with our work?' His tone had instantly changed to one of instruction. It was clear that any more questions would result in a boot in the backside rather than an explanation.
The sergeant and his troops set about taking over the trench, posting look-outs and readying the satchel charges to use against the bunker. Scott gathered his increasingly demoralised squad, the rest of the company likewise readying to move back to their start point.
'Right lads, gather round.' Scott instructed the squad, 'Cross the field as quickly as you can. Once we're in our trenc
hes, get ready to give covering fire in case Fritz counterattacks. If we're quick enough, we can get back before he responds to us. Oh, and keep low, 'cause he's still lobbing the odd mortar round about the place.'
'Not again. Bloody hell.' Simmonds complained, 'We've already crossed no man's land once, and now we've going to do it again, and showing our arses.'
'Yes, but not with a bloody great machine gun shooting at you this time.' Wells smiled, 'Scott and I put pay to that.'
'Ready then?' Scott shouted, 'Let's go.'
'Alfie, what's wrong with you?' Wells asked when he saw Marsh standing still rather than readying to jump the parapet.
'I thought I was a bloody goner until you saved my bacon.' Marsh whispered, his hands shaking, 'I'm not sure I'm ready to go again yet.' The adrenaline was wearing off and Marsh was less than certain he could work his legs properly, let alone actually climb out of the trench.
'You ain't dead yet. I saw how you took them on with a piece of wood.' Wells replied, 'Look, I'll help you out and across to our trenches.'
Wells let Marsh lean on him and they walked to a crumbled part of the trench wall, where it would not be too great a climb. Within a minute they were in the open again, heading back to their lines along with the rest of the company, which had generally received the message to withdraw at around the same time. Marsh felt an itch between his shoulder blades, almost as if the enemy had their sights lined up on him. He felt unbelievable exposed in the open, especially as it was much quieter than during their advance. He was quickly recovering his strength as the danger released more adrenaline into his system. Marsh pushed away from Wells so that they would present smaller targets to any eagle-eyed German sniper.
Suddenly there was the sound of a freight train arriving. Without realising what he was doing, Marsh dived into a nearby crater, closely followed by Wells. There was a loud crash, louder than anything he had heard before and he felt the shock right through his body as the blast lifted him from the ground. Lumps of mud, and stones, fell around him as his ears rang, the smell of explosives burning his nostrils. He could see Wells had a dazed look on his face, probably the same look Marsh was giving him back.
The next few minutes were a nightmare of explosions as the Germans launched their counterattack, bombarding their former trench as well as the British lines and the ground in between. Marsh and Wells scrapped themselves into the wall of the crater as well as they could, relying on the hope that shell holes never got hit twice. The oozing mud just below the surface sucked at their feet, and it was clear that in wetter weather, the mud would have started to drag them down.
In the quieter moment, Marsh slowly took in the contents of the shell hole. It was a decent size and looked like it had been created by quite a large piece of artillery. In places, the rim of the crater was uneven, where later explosions had created their own small craters. There were strands of barbed wire running down one side and a couple of corpses, one bloated and in British uniform, the other merely a skeletal hand sticking out of the mud. At the centre of the crater was a pool of water that stank beyond belief, a faint miasma hovering over the surface. On their side of the crater were some bricks. Perhaps there had once been a building here, Marsh thought during a lucid moment. Eventually he noticed a pair of legs behind the bricks, moving, so not dead. Someone else was in their refuge with them.
Marsh worked his way around the central pool, crouching down in the hope of avoiding any errant shell splinters.
'Wells! It's one of ours.' Shouted Marsh. Wells moved around to join him, equally wary of enemy fire.
The solider was not someone they knew. He was not able to talk and was struggling to his feet having seen his rescuers. Clearly he had been hit on the head, probably a glancing blow that had knocked him down. It had certainly dented his helmet.
'Argh.' The soldier said, hands reaching towards them in supplication.
'You all right mate?' Marsh asked.
'Argh.' Was the reply as the soldier continued to stagger towards Wells.
'You better sit down mate. You look concussed.' Marsh advised, concerned that he was not getting any response.
The injured soldier leapt on Wells, pushing him down the crater wall toward the pool in the centre. He was on top of Wells, snapping at his face, clawing at Wells' uniform with his hands while still making wordless sounds.
'Help Alfie, get him off me!' Wells panicked, 'He's trying to bite my bloody face off.'
Marsh tried to pull the assailant off his friend, but the soldier was in possession of a great strength and Marsh could not shift him.
'Stop him! Use your gun.' Wells screamed.
Marsh raised the butt end of his rifle and shouted 'Stop!', slamming the butt down hard into the side of the soldier's head. There was a crack and the soldier fell to the side, with Wells quickly scrambling out from beneath.
'What the hell is going on? He was trying to bite my face off.' Wells complained, wiping his hands across his face and then checking them to see if he was bleeding.
'Don't think he got you.' Marsh helpfully pointed out as Wells found no injuries.
The wounded soldier sat up looking at Marsh. There was a mark across the side of his face where the rifle butt had made contact, but other than that he did not look like he was particularly affected. He just sat there making noises like before and occasionally snapping his jaw.
'Look Alfie! What the fuck is that?' Wells said.
'What?'
'His chest. He's got a great big bloody hole in his chest.' Wells' voice rose to a panicked pitch again.
'Cover me.' Marsh instructed and moved towards the soldier, his hand outstretched before him.
'Don't touch him, he'll bite you.' Wells raised his rifle.
'Come on lad.' Marsh said in a soothing voice, 'What's your name?'
'Argh.' The soldier looked at him, the eyes showing little sign of consciousness.
'You look like you're hurt bad. Let me check you out.' He placed his hand on the soldier's shoulder. He did not resist, 'You're cold. How long you been out here?'
'Argh.' The soldier looked at Wells and started sniffing, snapping his teeth together.
'Calm down now. He's not going to hurt you.' Marsh looked over his shoulder at his terrified friend, to check that was actually the case, 'Now let's have a look at that wound.'
The chest wound was bad. It looked like a fragment of shrapnel had carved a chunk out of the soldier's chest. It was deep and looked like it might go as far as the heart. The soldier did not flinch as Marsh gently touched the wound.
'How the hell are you still alive? This must hurt like hell?'
'Argh.'
'I don't like the look of this Alfie, it's not right.' Wells complained, gripping his rifle tighter.
'We can't just leave him here. He's badly injured.' Marsh replied. He tore the tunic over the wound and put a bandage on it, tying it quickly around the soldier's chest. 'Put your arm around my neck and we'll get you out of here.'
Marsh lifted the wounded soldier, putting an arm around his neck. They staggered up the side of the crater, Wells keeping careful watch, both for the enemy and on the injured soldier. While Marsh had been dressing the wound, the German shelling had dropped off. Now seemed as good a time as any to make a break for their own lines.
'Let's get out of here while we still can. They've stopped shelling.' Marsh said.
The remaining trip across no-mans-land was even harder work. The soldier said nothing, clearly groaning in pain from time to time. He was quite mobile and it was really a matter of one of his legs not working properly. Marsh thought he was one incredibly lucky chap to have lasted for so long, but could not see how he would last much longer with such a bad injury. Once the pain started, it would be impossible for him to survive. Obviously the shock of such a traumatic injury was keeping the pain at bay. Marsh redoubled his efforts and very quickly they were climbing back into their own trench having drawn no enemy fire in the few heart-rending minutes it had taken
them to cross the disputed land.
'Stretcher bearer!' Marsh called. Two medical orderlies immediately attended to the casualty, lying him on a stretcher.
'Jesus! How did you survive?' One of the orderlies asked the casualty.
'Argh.' Came the reply.
'I think he's in shock. He hasn't said anything, but keeps snapping at my friend here.' The injured soldier started snapping at the nearest orderly, but did not move in any other way, 'Just like that.' Marsh added.
'We'll come with you.' Wells said, 'Let me just let an NCO know.' Wells ran off to a sergeant from battalion.
The casualty clearing station was a brick lined half buried bunker just behind the third line of trenches. It had been partially dug into the ground and then topped over with concrete and earth. Here they would be safe from anything but a direct hit, unlike the first aid station that the orderlies had bypassed in the second trench claiming that the injury was too serious to waste time there.
The room they were in was full of moaning casualties. Wells stayed by the entrance to the long room, not wanting to be surrounded by such pain and suffering. Marsh stayed by the soldier they had brought in. The man was still in shock, but Marsh had found out his name from his identify disc, 'J. Gibson'. Wells continued to talk to him while they waited for the doctor to come around for the initial assessment. Gibson was still in shock and unable to find any words in response. Clearly the clearing station was overworked, every case was major and they were waiting on stretchers, ready for taking outside to the tented operating theatre.
