by John Wilcox
The machine-gun fire died away for a moment and Jim called out: ‘Bertie. Are you there?’
The reply came back, ‘So I am, Jimmy, Sergeant, sir. What a relief to hear your voice, dear lad. I thought you might be gone.’
‘Not me. Are there others in that hole with you?’
‘Indeed there are. Six of us. There’s plenty of room. It’s a big hole.’
‘Is there an officer with you or another NCO?’
‘No. Only me. I am the general in command.’
Hickman grinned. ‘Now, listen carefully, Corporal. We can’t move out of here while this firing is going on. But they can’t keep on all day. As soon as it slackens, we must advance. I will give the command. But there’s to be no standing up, or they’ll cut us down easily. Crawl from shell hole to shell hole. To the right, towards the rubble from which they’re firing at us. Do you understand?’
‘Bloody hell, Jimmy. Are we going to attack the whole bloody German army all by ourselves?’
‘No, only the Fritzes in that ruined village. There’s a trench full of ’em out in front of the ruins. When we’re near enough we will bomb it and then rush in and take it. Don’t move till I tell you, though.’
‘You can rely on that. Oh yes.’
Jim turned to the bomber. ‘How many bombs have you got in those pouches, Higgins?’
‘Eight in all.’
‘Good. Keep three for yourself, give me two and give one each to the others.’ It wouldn’t do to say so, but Hickman did not want all the precious bombs to stay with one man who might be cut down as soon as they moved. This way, they stood more chance of getting within bombing distance with the grenades in hand.
The intensity of the shelling had long died away and the comparative lull caused by the cessation of the machine-gun firing now ended with a burst of distant firing far to the right, beyond the village (was it the French, on the move at last?) and also to the left, where Jim presumed the British regiment there had belatedly launched an attack on the German line. It was the diversion he had been waiting for.
He turned to the four. ‘Come on, lads. Out on top and spread out. Make for the nearest hole and drop in – but don’t stay holed up.’ Then, louder: ‘Time to go, Corporal Murphy. Go NOW!’
They scrambled and clawed their way up in the sliding grit that formed the sides of the crater and crawled away, over the undulations of the ground. Turning his head, Hickman saw that Bertie was leading his men similarly out of his shell hole. A machine gun based in the rubble about two hundred and fifty yards to their right began to chatter and Higgins, who was on the flank of Jim’s group, immediately fell. Hickman prostrated himself, heard the bullets hiss over his head, then ran forward and dragged the bomber down into the next shell hole. The remaining three of his men immediately flopped down beside him.
Higgins was moaning and blood was pouring from two black holes in his stomach. Jim relieved him of his three grenades, opened his jacket and shirt and sought the man’s field dressing in his pocket. He tore off the waterproof covering and took out the gauze pad, with its ampoule attached. Pressing the ampoule, he saw iodine released over the pad. He applied it to the two wounds, which were close together, and bound it clumsily to the stomach with a length of bandage. Tenderly, he lifted up Higgins’s head and poured a little water and rum from his own water bottle between his lips. The man looked up at him and tried to summon a grin. Then he closed his eyes and Jim laid him down.
He distributed the bombs to the other three, then crawled to the lip of the crater. There was no sign of Bertie but, to the left, a small party of khaki-clad figures was crawling its way between the shell holes towards the German lines, using the undulations of the ground as cover. He could not see who was leading it but called out: ‘Bertie.’
‘Next hole to you. Lost one man.’ His voice was very close.
‘Can you get a bead on that bastard with the machine gun, do you think? He’s in the corner, where the bricks are piled on the right.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘We will count to ten and then try and give you a bit of covering fire. Okay?’
‘Start countin’, Jimmy lad.’
Hickman gestured to the three men and began counting. ‘One – up to the lip; two, three, four, five, six – present rifles to the right; seven, eight – aim; nine – FIRE!’
The four rifles spat and then fired again as they worked the bolts. A single shot rang out from their left and then they slid back down into their craters as a rattle of musketry responded from the German lines. But this time there was no clatter of machine-gun fire.
‘I think I got the bugger,’ cried Bertie.
‘Good man. Great shooting. All right, let’s hop out again before they get a replacement up.’
And so the two little groups flitted between the shell holes, getting ever nearer now to the forward German trench, whose protective line of coiled barbed wire seemed, for once, to have been flattened by the British guns. The occasional flash of a fired rifle from its parapet, however, showed that the trench was still manned.
It took them half an hour to crawl to within about thirty yards of the German trench. It would have been impossible to make this progress had the ground been flat or the visibility clear. The terrain, however, had been blasted consistently by the British guns and was studded with craters and splintered tree stumps. It also undulated extremely. The corpses that studded the field gave additional, if unpleasant, extra cover. In addition, a faint breeze that came from the south was bringing smoke from the French guns and this, mingling near to the ground with what was left of the morning mist, reduced visibility.
So it was that Hickman was able to gather his small force in a crater so close to the German trench that he could hear the voices of its defenders. Bertie had scrambled alongside his friend and brought what remained of his section with him. The little group that gathered at the bottom of the shell hole therefore numbered nine.
‘It’s not exactly an army, Jim lad, is it?’ Bertie had somehow lost his steel helmet and his red hair, no longer curly, was plastered in mud so that individual strands stood up vertically. The puttees on his right calf had disappeared completely. But his eyes were bright.
Hickman put a finger to his mouth and replied in a whisper – if he could hear the Germans in the trench, then they could hear him. ‘No, but I reckon we’ve got enough to bomb our way into that trench.’ Jim nodded to his left. ‘The attack’s not over, anyway. I saw another group over there still trying to advance. I think we’ll get into the trench all right. Keeping it is another matter. Do your lot have any Mills bombs?’
‘No. No bomber left. He was cut down.’
‘Pity. I hope we’ve got enough.’ He waved to the others to gather round. ‘Now, listen. I am sure that the Jerries in the trench have no idea that we are this near. So we will have the advantage of surprise when we attack. The four of us with bombs will get out and crawl just a bit nearer, because I want to be sure that we can reach their trench when we throw. The rest of you will stay here making no noise until you hear the grenades exploding. Then get up and charge hell for leather, bayonets first, as we shall do. Once in the trench, Corporal Murphy will lead his men to the right, clearing the trench, and I will take my lot to the left, doing the same. Here are two bombs for use by your men, Bertie – use them to toss over the traverses once in the trench. We will keep two back to do the same as we go to the left. Pick up any German stick bombs you can see. They could be vital when we have to defend the place. Right. Any questions?’
No one spoke.
‘Right. Good luck. Bombers come with me. Quiet as mice, now.’
Stealthily, Hickman edged his way over the lip of the crater, worming his way on his stomach, carrying his two bombs in the smoke helmet on his back so as not to impede his progress, and carefully planting his rifle and bayonet before him as he went. He caught a glimpse of a German coal-scuttle helmet above the parapet and he froze, then, as it disappeared, he inched his way
forward until he judged he was near enough. He examined the German parapet and then, to his right, he saw what he had feared. The machine gun that Bertie had temporarily put out of action by killing its gunner was in situ behind a pile of rubble, but its muzzle was now slowly moving from left to right, scanning no man’s land. It would cut them down as soon as they stood.
He beckoned his men forward so that they lay in a line abreast, some twenty yards from what was left of the German wire. He spoke to them in the softest of whispers.
‘There’s a machine-gun post to the right. I will try and wriggle nearer and put it out of action with my bombs. If they get me first, throw your bombs at the gun and then charge the trench. The gun must be put out. We’ve got six bombs between us. You, Hitchcock and you Brown, keep your bombs for the traverses in the trench. The others throw theirs into the trench from here when I have put out that bloody gun. Right? Stay here until I’ve killed those gunners. Good luck.’
He made his way with immense care to the right, thanking God for the patches of yellow mist and smoke that clung to the contours of the earth. He paused, lay still and examined what he could see of the gun emplacement. It was roughly made, with a semicircle of bricks and other rubble formed around the gun, which fired from a V-shaped aperture left in the wall. He could see the shape of the helmet of the gunner – but how many men manned the German heavy machine guns? Probably three, like the British. Luckily, there was no cover to the emplacement, so that he would be able to lob his grenades over the top.
Jim ran his tongue over his dry lips. Everything depended upon two things: his throw being accurate (they had all been taught to throw with a stiff overarm action to avoid obstacles in the movement); and the bloody bomb going off as it should, five seconds after the extraction of the firing pin. He had heard so many stories of the Mills grenades not exploding at all or of a fault developing in the timing mechanism, so enabling an alert enemy to hurl them back at the thrower. Ah well …
Unprompted, his mind suddenly summoned up a picture of Polly hurling a cricket ball at Bertie batting in Aston Park, while he kept wicket. The boys howled at her that it was an illegal delivery because she bent her arm, but she insisted that it was the only way she could bowl, otherwise, she said, the ball would ‘go all over the place’. He smiled to himself. Bugger the rules and the training, he would throw the bombs with a bent arm to ensure accuracy.
He took one last look at the gun, breathed in, lifted himself on his left elbow, pulled at the extractor pin ring and hurled the bomb over the low rubble wall. It exploded in a white sheet of flame behind the gunner – perhaps a little too far back. He adjusted his movement with the second bomb and threw it on a shorter trajectory. This sent the gun hurling over the barrier and the gunner spreadeagled over the rubble.
‘Yah,’ he shouted, half in exhilaration, half in relief. Almost immediately he saw two more explosions erupt over the parapet in the trench and he staggered to his feet, rifle in hand, and ran towards the trench, aware that he was overtaking the others in a ragged charge.
Just one shot was fired from the German lines as they trod down the battered wire and hurled themselves into the trench. The lookout was desperately working the bolt of his rifle as Hickman’s bayonet took him in the ribs. Two other soldiers lay crumpled on the broken duckboards at the bottom of the trench, showing where the grenades had exploded. Bertie was moving to the right and, meeting the traverse, pulled the pin on his grenade and waited for three precious seconds before lobbing it over the barrier and then bounding round the corner, bayonet presented. The rest of his party followed him and out of sight.
The rest of Hickman’s party was similarly occupied to the left and Jim saw the grenade explode beyond the traverse and he hurried to follow, then stopped. There was a dugout entrance in the section of the trench into which they had vaulted and he didn’t want to be attacked from behind. He waited by its entrance, rifle at the ready, for a moment. Then he saw, slung from wooden battens buttressing the side of the trench (the German trenches were so much better constructed than the British), a sling containing stick bombs. He selected one, withdrew the firing pin, waited two seconds, then tossed it down the steep steps leading to the interior of the dugout. A muffled explosion followed. He did the same with a second bomb, then selected two more and followed his men round the buttress into the next section of the trench.
All three were facing four Germans, bayonet to bayonet, while two more defenders lay on the duckboards, killed by the grenade explosions. He put down his bombs and lifted his rifle, desperately trying to get a clear line of fire past the members of his platoon. But this was an anachronistic contest, a melee in a crowded space, steel clashing with steel, such as might have taken place when, bullets spent, infantryman might have confronted infantryman in the trenches before Sebastopol. It was all of thirty seconds before Hickman could get a bead on one of the protagonists, who then fell with a bullet in his chest. Standing back, he reworked the bolt and brought down the other three Germans.
As he did so, a greatly moustached officer, in shirtsleeves but with revolver in hand, emerged from a dugout, cried ‘Mein Gott’, fired twice at Hickman, missed and was then brought down by a bayonet thrust to the stomach. Jim picked up one of his discarded bombs, pushed the officer down the steps of the dugout and hurled the bomb after him. The consequent explosion hurled the dead man halfway up the steps again.
Hickman stood, shaking for a moment, with perspiration dripping down his face. His men stood looking at him. ‘Round the next traverse, Sarge?’ one of them asked. Jim thought quickly; with only nine men, how much of the trench could he possibly hold? Very little more.
He shook his head. He gave the soldier the other stick bomb. ‘Toss this over the traverse,’ he said. ‘Then pull whatever you can out of the dugout to barricade the corner. And we will need something overhead to prevent them bombing us over the top. Find what you can, now. Quickly.’ He gestured to the third man. ‘You, stand guard by the traverse in the meanwhile. Bayonet anyone who tries to get round.’
He held up his hand for a moment. The shaking had stopped. He had just personally killed nine men – plus goodness knows how many more down in the two dugouts – and he had now stopped shaking. Was he becoming a professional killer, a cold, steel-hearted slayer of men with not enough conscience left in him to summon up a shudder or two? God, what would Polly think of him? Then he heard two grenade explosions up the trench, the way he had come. He shook his head. This was no time for self-flagellation. Bertie could be in trouble.
He rushed round the traverse. The section of the trench by which they had entered it was empty, except for the bodies of its dead guardians. He ran to the next traverse and met one of Bertie’s party rushing towards him.
‘Sarge,’ shouted the man. ‘Corporal Murphy says ’e’s cleared this section and the next one. ’E’s got no more bombs left, but ’e’s picked up some German ones. Do you want ’im to go on bombin’ up the trench?’
‘No. Stay here. I’ll go and find the corporal.’
Hickman ran round the next traverse and found Bertie tying a tourniquet onto the leg of one of the men, above a wound that was bleeding copiously. He looked up at Jim and blew out his cheeks. ‘He’s copped it with a bullet from a bloke who’s buggered off up the trench,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think we should follow him. I think we’ve killed enough Fritzes for one day, Jimmy.’
He jerked his head over his shoulder and Jim saw several Germans lying still but disfigured by bomb blasts at short range. What was left of Bertie’s party were standing guard at the furthest traverse.
Hickman shook his head. ‘Quite right. We can’t hold all the bloody trench if they counter-attack, as they surely will. We’ve probably bitten off more than we can chew already.’ He looked at the wounded man. ‘Can you walk a few yards?’
The man nodded, sweat pouring down his face. ‘Hobble more likely, Sarge.’
‘Good. Help him back to the section behind me, Bertie, and I’l
l bring your chaps. Three sections is as much as we can hold.’
Then Bertie pulled the arm of the stricken man round his shoulder and together they hobbled to the traverse. Jim beckoned to the men standing guard at the far barrier. He posted one man at the angle of the trench and then, as before, ordered the rest to blockade it, with whatever they could find from a dugout from the entrance of which smoke was still seeping. He was hurrying back when, from ahead, he heard the cry, ‘Sergeant.’
Overtaking Bertie, he rushed to the furthest section they had taken, to where the men he had left barricading the traverse were standing. One of them gesticulated to the other side of the barrier. ‘They say they’re English over there,’ he said. ‘Could be Jerries, pretendin’, like.’
‘Who are you?’ shouted Hickman.
‘Lieutenant Hamilton, A Company, Third Warwicks. Who are you? Call your man off, he nearly shot me.’
Jim did not know a Lieutenant Hamilton, but then he did not know all the subalterns in A Company. ‘Tell me the name of the CO.’
‘Colonel Angus Bradbury.’
Hickman nodded and gestured to his man to remove the barricade and stand aside. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he called. ‘Just had to be sure. We’ve only just taken this section of the trench.’
The broken bed and table, splintered by the explosions in the dugout, were pulled aside and a young officer stepped through, followed by a swarthy, moustached sergeant and a handful of men. They were all plastered with mud and grit from crawling across from shell hole to shell hole.
