Shells were now coming from the German guns adding to the confusion, but I didn’t really notice. I was becoming detached. I knew that I was as good as dead and it didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was my duty – my bag-piping. “I didn’t piss myself,” I thought.
THE 1ST NEWFOUNDLAND REGIMENT, 07:20 HOURS
“Lions led by donkeys”
The 29th Division was made up of the 86th, 87th and 88th brigades. The 29th was positioned about three kilometers north of the 36th Ulster Division and had the unenviable task of attacking the gauntlet protecting Beaumont-Hamel. To advance through the area of triangulation of firepower known as the danger tree was suicide, but to be given the orders to push five thousand meters to Beaumont-Hamel seemed madness. Nonetheless, this was the objective of the 29th division on day one of the Somme.
The 86th and 87th brigades were to be in position for the initial advance and the 88th brigade, made up of the Essex and the 1st Newfoundland Regiments, were to reinforce their efforts. At 07:20, the Hawthorn Ridge mine exploded and because the 29th was less than two kilometers away, the effects of the blast were even more intense. The 86th and 87th were shoulder to shoulder in the trenches awaiting the whistle and weathered the shock of the blast relatively well except for several partial trench collapses which were quickly repaired by the sappers of the Royal Engineering Unit.
The 88th, however, stood ready in the St. John’s supply trench. A large, more open trench several hundred meters to the back of the most forward lines. As the blast of the mine rolled past, it knocked many men down, including both Terry and George.
“Holy, Crap!” George said as he scrambled to his feet.
“Check your pipes,” Terry said as he gathered his senses and stood up. Fortunately, their pipes were made of tough African black-wood and came through the encounter unscathed.
Terry looked at his watch. “What gives?” he asked out loud.
The same perplexed expression was plainly visible on the face of Major Henry Winsted, the Commander of the 1st Newfies. Ten long minutes later, the entire valley erupted into explosions and gunfire. The Germans were ready and had obviously survived the week long pounding almost unimpeded.
Major Winsted was a nervous man by nature and was pacing back and forth in the St. John’s trench, looking at his watch and then toward the Front. Winsted, a tall, willowy man with a sallow complexion, came from a well-to-do British family. Having attended the finest military schools and then being rapidly promoted through the ranks, he thought that being given command of such a small regiment of colonials could only be considered an insult and he resented the whole situation. What’s more, instead of the glory of being the 1st to charge over the beaten German Army, he and these outsiders were to mop up!
“It’s a disgrace!” he yelled in frustration.
He had a proclivity for impeccable uniforms and could always be seen with a riding crop, which he used to wave around while giving orders, otherwise it was tucked tightly under his right arm. Today, however, the crop was absent. “The battlefield is no place for such bobbles unless you are cavalry,” his commander told him, and being a good soldier, he had left it behind this morning. In a move he had performed many times with his crop, he slapped his right leg with his imaginary whip.
“Damn it, why are they not moving?” he blurted out. He kept looking at the entry trench, which was blocked by the Essex. They hadn’t budged in 20 minutes. “What the devil!” he yelled.
His sallow face turning an odd shade of reddish yellow – not quite orange. He strode over to a passing private and barked an order. “Private! You there! Go and find out some information as to what is the difficulty!”
“Yes sir, straight away sir,” the private responded while snapping a crisp salute.
This was supposed to be a walk in the park through German ruins with the enemy either throwing up their hands or dead, he thought. “Bloody idiots! Could they not have foreseen this?”
The private soon returned to the pacing Major. “Sir, I was told that the trenches are jammed with wounded men being brought back from the advanced attack. It would seem things are not going well,” he reported.
“Fools!” Winsted howled, waving his imaginary crop around. “That will be all private – dismissed!”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir,” the private said as he spun around and ran off to continue his original task. Both Terry and George had been watching intently as Winsted lost the composure he never really had.
“Our leader seems to be somewhat anxious,” George said.
“Maybe unhinged,” Terry replied. “I hope he doesn’t do something stupid.”
“Me either, this is very unsettling.”
Both knew the condition of the German entanglement trench from their reconnaissance mission and it was clear to them why the troops were being held up.
Winsted glanced over at both men, they had provided him with information two days ago regarding the barbed wire and he had dismissed it. Could they have been correct in their observations?
He quickly looked away when their eyes met and slapped his leg again with his nonexistent crop. The fight was obviously under way in good order. From the St. John’s you could see the exploding earth rising up above the parapet, hear the whiz bangs and the rattling of the Maxim 08s being answered by the snarl of the Vickers guns. Even the battle screams of the men charging and dying were audible.
The men of the B.E.F. were being mowed down at an unimaginable rate. A blunder of epic proportions was unfolding and no one seemed to be interested in stopping it – except perhaps those dying.
More than an hour had passed and the men of the 88th had only moved about four meters. The Essex still stood at the entrance of the trenches while the 1st Newfoundland stood at the ready.
“This is preposterous!” Winsted snarled, looking at the trench wall toward the battlefield. From the German lines inexplicably came a series of flares, shot high over the battlefield. It may have been a signal to artillery or to ground the troops, we will never know. Perhaps it was a mistake, the real reason is not of great consequence. The outcome, however, is.
Several teams of horses came racing up the St. John’s at a full gallop. Behind each team of six horses was a driver and three thirteen pound field artillery guns secured in tandem. They were part of the Royal horse artillery and their mission was to move artillery rapidly in the field of battle so as to maximize the effectiveness of the field cannon.
The drivers hollered and yelled as they drove through the trench, there were men and equipment everywhere and they had to clear the way. To add to the danger of having six, twelve hundred pound beasts charging at more than thirty miles an hour, the last cannon in each team would whip back and forth wildly, often flipping over in the process.
The cannons were designed to be towed right side up or upside down with equal ease and without damaging the weapon. Of course, anyone within fifteen feet either side of the whipsaw was in real danger of being killed so proper respect was shown by all.
The three teams flew wildly past Major Winsted slinging mud in all directions with no regard for rank or status. Consequently, he was showered with a considerable amount of dirt and mud spattering his meticulously neat uniform with brown blotches. In an unexpected display of self-control, he brushed the large clumps of dirt off of his tunic and trousers, turning his gaze back toward the Front.
Terry and George witnessed the entire event.
“I think he took that rather well,” George said.
“Indeed my dear Doctor,” Terry replied in a false British accent. “Smashingly well”.
The flares that were arching across the eastern sky eventually caught the Major’s eye and he stiffened at the sight.
“Flares? They are too close to have been sent up by the enemy, so they must be ours. What does it mean?” He continued to watch the torches fizzle across the horizon. Could this be a signal? Perhaps a breakthrough – or the possibility that aid is needed?
&n
bsp; He desperately searched his memory, could he have missed something during briefing the day earlier? His eyes darted back and forth for another officer with whom he could consult, but there were none in sight. He spun around looking for anyone to confirm the meaning of the flares, but there was no one to consult.
The flares could only mean one thing. After all, one wouldn’t use a flare normally in the battlefield. It had to be a signal to advance! He looked at the trench, which leads to the system, still jammed with Essex unable to advance. Of course, it has to be a request to advance.
But this could be his moment for military glory. If he could lead these Colonials straight to the front and save the day, he would go down in military history! As there were no other officers to be found Winsted had to make the command decision.
“Form up,” he said in an almost inaudible voice. He cleared his throat. “Form up!” he hollered this time.
The men around him turned in disbelief. Terry and George rushed over to him. “What are you saying, sir?” Terry asked in shock.
“I want my men to assemble in wave formation,” he said. There was a sense of desperation in his voice. He was near hysteria, knowing the enormity of giving such an order.
“Sir, with all due respect, the Essex haven’t budged in an hour,” George said calmly, hoping to settle this overly anxious officer down.
“I intend to have the regiment exit the St. John’s eastern wall and march up to the enemy lines,” Winsted barked.
“That’s suicide,” Terry spat.
“Careful piper! That’s insubordination! I shall report you after the battle!” Winsted said shrilly.
“Beg your pardon sir, but there is no cover – it’s open field. We’ll be sitting ducks for their gunners,” Terry pleaded.
“I have received a signal that requires my regiment to act, and act we shall! Form up now, men! In waves, to maintain fifty paces spacing! That is an order!”
The men, being good and well trained soldiers formed up in eight lines of one hundred. The pipers couldn’t believe what they were seeing. This fool was about to break the cardinal rule of trench warfare and he was going to commit the entire regiment to this madness. It was inconceivable, but it was happening nonetheless.
“Pipers ready!” Winsted commanded, waving his imaginary crop as he spoke. “Men ready! Follow me – on to victory!” He scrambled up the side of the St. John’s trench with the 1st Newfoundland Regiment on his heels.
George and Terry started playing “Scotland the Brave,” and attempted to climb at the same time, but with limited success. Once over the top, the men formed orderly lines fifty paces apart and marched toward the front lines across open land. Remarkably, there was no resistance, the regiment moved forward at a steady pace and not a man had fallen. They just kept moving with their emboldened leader holding his invisible crop high in the air.
THE GERMAN 119TH RESERVE REGIMENT
Three hundred meters away from the St. John’s trench, the German 119th Reserve Regiment was well dug in. After a week of living in bunkers, it felt good to get out, even if it was to do battle. They had withstood the best pounding the British could muster and now had a renewed sense of determination in their fighting.
Hartwig Bier was the lead in one of the machine gun nests that covered the forward position between the Front and Beaumont Hamel. He was senior man in his sector, with five nests spread out over four hundred meters of Front. Each nest was equipped with two Maxim 08 guns, and they all seemed to be performing well.
Bier had his men paying particular attention to the cooling of the guns. The water levels had to be meticulously maintained to prevent the possibility of overheating. He had never asked so much of these fine machines and knew he was pushing them to the limit.
Each gun had a team of four men: the gunner, the feeder, a cooler, and a shoveler. At five hundred rounds per minute, times two guns per nest, one could quickly become buried in the spent 7.9 milimeter casings if not for the shovelers. In typical German fashion, everything was well thought out, the guns were placed at thirty-degree angles to one another, and the nests were positioned to maximized their advantage with relation to topography. The Germans had created a wall of death and the point of triangulation was around the area known as the danger tree.
Bier’s teams were blanketing the British advance trenches with fire and completely stopping the British from making any headway toward their lines. The system was working extraordinarily well.
One of his men slapped him on his back. Hartwig turned to see what he wanted. The noise levels in these nests were so high that verbal conversation was not possible. And, as a protective measure the men had cotton stuffed in their ears but, the noise was still loud enough to be painful, so they had to communicate through hand gestures. His team member pointed at his eyes and then pointed out toward the front where there was open sloping terrain. Biers looked in the direction his man was pointing and shook his head in disbelief.
“Was ist los?” – what’s going on – Biers asked disbelieving, mouthing words that couldn’t be heard.
They could see what appeared to be a regiment marching in formation down the gentle slope. Perhaps as many as eight hundred men, Biers estimated. He looked left and then right scanning the battle area and assessing the situation. It could be some kind of diversion to draw attention away from the real attack. It made no sense.
He looked at the fellow who had brought it to his attention, they exchanged puzzled looks and shrugged their shoulders. He leaned forward to get a better look and noticed the kilted pipers in the front. He scowled. Hartwig hated the instrument and the god-awful noise it produced. “I shall shoot you two first,” he said.
He turned to alert the other gunners in his nest. He had a job to do and it involved killing British, so he needed to focus his men on this new threat. He turned his gun toward the nest to his left and spat out a short burst at the earth in front of it. Dirt and mud flew up in front of the gunners and they looked to their right to see what the matter was.
As the other soldier had done, now Hartwig pointed first to his eyes, then to the advancing 1st Newfoundland Regiment. The gunner shot back a questioning look. Hartwig held up one finger, he then pointed at the sitting ducks and repeated the gesture pointing at the British front lines. One gun was to train on the regiment and one on the British forward lines.
The gunner relayed the message to the next nest, and a total of five Maxims prepared to unload a brutal amount of firepower on the Newfoundland men. That amounted to twenty five hundred rounds per minute that were readying to decimate the brave young soldiers of the 1st Newfoundland Regiment – wholesale slaughter.
As the men marched down the slope toward the battlefield, they moved at double-time, and soon four rows had passed George and Terry who had to keep a more modest pace.
The lack of resistance was about to abruptly change. The sounds of the battlefield were now changing. A gun gives off a different sound when it is aimed and fired at you. It’s inexplicable, but very recognizable.
The unending rattle of the German machine guns took on that different pitch and the 1st row of men began to fall. A gray haze of bullets formed in the air, spraying everything in the vicinity of the men. It sounded like heavy raindrops hitting the ground in a downpour and the second row went down. The men marched past their fallen comrades and leaned into the onslaught as if it were merely a driving rain. The third row went down.
Hartwig Bier looked out above the crosshairs of his Maxim. “Dummkopfs!” he shouted over the deafening sound of his guns. He was frustrated, as he watched hundreds of men dying under his nest’s relentless fire. “Why don’t you turn and run or look for cover? Are your lives so worthless?” He shook his head. Why were they making him slaughter them this way?
Terry and Doc could no longer advance. The bodies strewn about made it near impossible to march over them. Yet, the well-trained men of the 1st kept moving toward the enemy lines.
After seven rows of the
regiment had been wiped out, the last row broke formation and began to retreat. The men were not running because of fear – they knew it was over before it had started – they were retiring in an effort to save their fallen comrades. Men were carrying and dragging the wounded in an attempt to salvage anything from this massacre and still the Maxims punished them.
As the seventh row of men fell, Terry and George realized they had somehow come through untouched. There was no point in piping anymore so they began helping injured men back to the St. John’s trench, then went back for more.
Major Winsted was yelling orders and waving his arms around, but there were few left to hear his commands. He had moved back to the seventh row and, as his men dropped around him in a hail of bullets, he, too, lurched backward in a spasmodic dance of death. Bullets ripped through his body, putting an end to his mad charge and quest for glory.
The advance had been a complete disaster of unthinkable proportion – a tragedy of uncommon courage and unprecedented folly. The regiment had been wiped out with its men dead or dying before they even reached the British advanced trenches. The slaughter took less than fifteen minutes.
Hartwig Bier took his finger off of the trigger of his gun, and the 08 lurched to a stop. His feeder looked at him questioningly, but Hartwig looked straight ahead. He shook his head as he looked at the horrific carnage before him – the result of his efforts. They were all destroyed and for what purpose?
“Lions lead by donkeys,” he muttered, and turned his Maxim back toward the advanced trenches of the British to resume his duties with a profound feeling of disgust.
As the trickle of survivors made it back to St. John’s trench dragging or carrying wounded comrades, an officer who had survived stopped the men from returning to the field for more wounded. His decision to resume the retrieval of wounded under cover of darkness was met with protest by those brave survivors. The orders were firm and the men had to wait for darkness.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 25
