Casca 21: The Trench Soldier

by Barry Sadler

  The French had mustered sixty-two divisions, each with seventeen thousand; barely a million men, about two thirds of Germany's strength. And they had three hundred medium and heavy cannon against Germany's three and a half thousand.

  The British Expeditionary Force totaled a mere ninety thousand in six slender infantry divisions armed with rifles and bayonets and five cavalry brigades with lances, sabers and carbines. Their only heavy weapons were four five-inch guns and two machine guns per battalion. There were also a few bicycle detachments, field telegraph and carrier pigeon detachments, and some observation balloon units. When the Kaiser was advised of the arrival of this force, he sneered, "A contemptible little army."

  At last, on August twenty-second, the British troops were issued equipment. Far too much equipment, it seemed to Casca. Each man was weighed down with a total of sixty-six pounds.

  Casca divided his mountain of junk into two parts – the rifle, bayonet, ammunition pouches and two Mills bombs he wanted, also the water canteen, entrenching tool and eating equipment. The rest he set aside to dispose of at the first opportunity.

  It was an opportunity that he didn't get. They were marched to the town of Mons where the French Fifth Army was locked in a losing struggle with superior German forces. They marched along country roads lined with trees beside fields and farmhouses. The soldiers occupied the center of the road, and both sides were jammed with French refugees, as many heading for the German border as were heading away from it. Most of the groups consisted of a stout farmer in the lead – blond, blue-eyed ones heading north, swarthy ones moving south. Behind the farmer came a high-laden, horse-drawn dray hauling everything of value that could be carried – brass beds, barrels of wine, furniture, perhaps a plow, a butter churn. Behind the dray came numerous children and women, all carrying as much as they were able to bear.

  The over-laden British troops arrived on the outskirts of the town as darkness fell and had to set up camp in the open, blundering around by lamplight.

  At dawn the next morning they moved into some empty French trenches while their twenty-four pieces of artillery were dragged about and eventually aimed at the German lines.

  The hastily set up British guns were too far away, too small, and too few to have any real effect other than to alert the Germans that an attack was imminent.

  At eight o'clock, in broad daylight, the Tommies climbed out of the trenches, each man hampered by his enormous pack and accoutrements. Second lieutenants with wire cutters opened narrow passages through the giant sausages of barbed wire, and they stumbled forward into a hail of artillery bombardment accompanied by withering machine gun fire. The tracer rounds from the machine guns made long lines of white light as they reached for the British troops.

  Stooped almost double, they ran into the rain of lead.

  To Casca's right a Highland division was advancing, led by a group of young boys in kilts playing bagpipes and drums. Behind these boys came the subalterns, only slightly older and armed only with swagger sticks and holstered pistols.

  The German trenches were only four hundred yards away, and the intervening ground had been churned up by constant French and German artillery fire for the past ten days so that now it looked like the surface of the moon.

  Casca stumbled at the lip of a shell crater and fell into it, rolling down the slope to come to rest in the bottom pinned by his heavy pack. He struggled up and saw that he shared the crater with two corpses, one German, one French, and both stinking. He shrugged his way out of his pack and abandoned it then climbed the far slope of the crater and paused to survey the scene of action.

  All around him men were dying, blown to bits by shells, or cut in half by machine gun fire. Second lieutenants with swagger sticks were pacing back and forth exhorting the men to advance. Here and there a few Tommies would clamber out of a crater and run forward to be torn to pieces in the fire storm, and every few moments one or the other of the subalterns would fall.

  A lieutenant passed close to Casca's crater, a boy of perhaps eighteen, his muddied pink cheeks streaked with tears, his swagger stick waving urgently as he called for another charge.

  Casca, cursing himself for a fool, rose to his feet and ran until only Casca and the lieutenant were on their feet. And then Casca was alone.

  The enemy trenches were only a hundred yards away when Casca fell again. He lay still, staring at the barbed wire entanglement that topped the German trenches.

  Every few yards along the trench there was a machine gun, and all of them were spitting flame in his direction. Around him British troops were either hugging the ground as he was or screaming out their lives in messes of blood and lead and dirt.

  The last of the officers seemed to have died or perhaps had learned enough to keep down. Only the Highlanders over to the right were still advancing in the wake of the barelegged boy musicians. None of their officers had survived, and they were led by a sergeant.

  As Casca watched, the German mortar crews concentrated their fire on this sector, and he saw first the drummers, then the piper, and then a sergeant and most of his following soldiers fall to the ground as the shells burst around them.

  The wire was now less than fifty yards away, but it was clear to Casca that they were not going to reach it. Suddenly the boy piper leaped to his feet, his pipes held above his head in one hand. Then he ran for the English lines. Good thinking, Casca decided quickly and took off after him. All along the line Tommies were getting to their feet and fleeing too.

  But the carnage continued. The machine guns poured lead after the retreating backs, and more men fell.

  Then Casca was at his own wire, searching desperately for an opening while all around him men fell to the machine guns. There were no openings. The wire had been re-entangled as soon as the charging troops were clear of the trenches. And all the wire cutters were out in no-man's-land with the dead subalterns.

  Inside the wire stood Regimental Sergeant Major Norman, wire cutters in hand, but he was not about to use them. He paced back and forth, his impeccable boots and cap peak glinting in the sunlight, abusing the troops and screaming at them to turn around and attack the Germans.

  Casca succeeded in getting the butt of his rifle beneath a roll of wire, and a number of other men ran to join him, all lifting together until there was just space enough for Casca to wriggle through on his belly.

  RSM Norman ran toward him. "You 'orrible, worthless coward! You rotten disgrace to the race! Get back there and fight like a decent English soljer! You no-good ..."

  His voice died in his throat as Casca calmly shot him from where he lay, and the tirade ceased. A moment later Casca had opened the wire and Tommies were pouring through it into the safety of the trench.

  Casca leaned against the wall of the trench and worked the action of his .303 to eject the spent cartridge then removed the magazine and squeezed a fresh bullet into place.

  "Hope I don't have to shoot too many more Englishmen," he muttered to himself. "I don't like this war already."

  He looked out across no-man's-land toward the German trenches. Shaking his head he muttered to himself, "I don't see how men can stand against these machine guns. We could be here for years."

  A Major Blandings appeared on the other side of the trench. Purple in the face, he stammered his outrage. "Disgraceful. Running like chickens. Not a man amongst the lot of you. Scarcely a single shot fired."

  Casca stared at him calmly, just managing to restrain the desire to shoot him too. The furious officer was still ranting when whistles sounded all up and down the line. The machine guns commenced firing and Casca turned to see a thick wave of Germans rushing for the trench.

  He fired deliberately, each bullet accounting for a man. Then he reloaded the five-shot magazine and fired again. Beside him everybody was doing the same, and the chatter of the machine gun was continuous. The boy piper and one of his drummers were moving back and forth on the earthworks. The piper was limping, and the drummer's sleeve was red with bl
ood and he occasionally missed the beat, but they played as if in a peacetime parade in London. They marched to the opening in the wire and through it, heading for the oncoming waves of German troops.

  Casca didn't want to go, but he found himself swept up in the tide of men who clambered out of the trench and ran into no-man's-land behind the two boys.

  From somewhere he heard orders: "Fix bayonets! Charge!" And he found himself obeying, although he had a profound contempt for bayonet fighting while there were bullets available.

  The German riflemen could have cut them down, but the wild music from the kilted boys and the long line of threatening steel unnerved some of the men in the front rank, and they faltered. Other men blundered into them, and their charge lost momentum and cohesion.

  Then the two forces met. Many of the Germans had emptied their magazines and needed to reload. Their bayonets were still on their belts and they quailed before the Tommies' flashing steel. Even those with bullets ready only had time to fire one round and were still working the bolts of their rifles when the British closed with them.

  A lot of Tommies died and a few Germans, but many Germans stopped in their tracks, and not a few turned and ran. Soldiers behind them who could not see what was happening turned and ran too, and the British quickly broke through their lines.

  Those Germans who had continued their charge were now at the wire struggling to cut through the entanglements in the teeth of machine gun fire with British bayonets at their rear.

  The heavy Lee Enfield rifle was a yard long, and the bayonet another eighteen inches. Together they made a very effective pike, and the professionals who made up the main strength of the British force were well trained in its use. They fell upon the Germans from behind, stabbing them through the kidneys, clubbing them with their rifle butts. The attack stalled. There was some fierce hand-to-hand fighting, but when it came to steel on steel, the Tommies had the better of it. More and more Germans turned back, and soon the entire force was in retreat.

  Casca was glad to see them go, and made no attempt to follow. He was mightily relieved to hear the piper sound the Retreat, and he readily turned to follow him back to the trench.

  At their trench Major Blandings was furiously waiting as he upbraided them again. There were also a number of provosts questioning men at random, as it was clear that RSM Norman had not been killed by a German bullet. Norman's replacement was strutting back and forth with a clipboard in his hand, demanding that all soldiers account for their sixty-six-pound packs which were lying all over no-man's-land.

  Casca found a quiet angle of the trench and lay down and closed his eyes. "This is some army I've gotten myself into," he cursed to himself. "They're more concerned about their bloody bookkeeping than they are with the fighting. What the hell do they think we're here for?"

  A moment later he heard the new RSM shouting at him. Casca opened his eyes and glanced toward the man and lifted his rifle with one hand so that it pointed as if unintentionally at the RSM's gut. For a long moment the two men stared at each other. Casca's glance was quizzical as if he were awaiting an order to fire. The RSM's eyes were at first furious, then surprised, and finally cautious. He turned away and sought somebody else to harass while Casca again relaxed and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  But there was to be no rest. The whistles sounded again, the machine guns opened up, and Casca got to his feet to see yet another wave of gray-clad Germans racing toward the trench. They were easy enough to shoot. Casca downed a man with every shot, and the Germans were so closely packed as they ran that even the most ill-aimed shot was sure to hit somebody somewhere.

  But there were simply too many of them. Thousands of them. Bagpipes and bayonets would not turn this horde.

  Neither would the Vickers machine guns. Each British battalion had only two of the cumbersome, water-cooled, belt-fed weapons, and these were prone to jam if pressed to fire rapidly for any length of time. They were also apt to "hang fire," the cartridge exploding as the breech opened, generally destroying both gun and crew.

  Casca had soon used his ammunition issue of twenty-five rounds, and was fast using up the fifty rounds he had stolen. All along the trench men were cursing as they ran out of ammunition. Then one of the machine guns stopped, and a moment later the other fell silent.

  Casca looked out into the onrushing swarm of Germans, their Mausers flashing fire. And behind them as far as he could see was wave upon wave of field-gray uniforms and rifles.

  "Well," Casca muttered, "Sir John French said this would be a short, brisk campaign. I guess he's right."

  He heard and obeyed the order to fix bayonets. Why not? A useless tactic for a hopeless situation.

  The Germans were now cutting their way through the wire, and the Tommies had no choice but to wait for them.

  Then he was thrusting his bayonet into a German's calf, then into another one's gut; hot, sticky blood sprayed over him as he withdrew the steel. As they got down into the trenches, the Germans were handicapped by their own numbers. They could not fire for fear of hitting each other, and the defenders' lack of ammunition now mattered much less. The desperate Tommies stabbed and clubbed with their empty rifles. Here and there men lost hold of their weapons and grappled with their bare hands. British officers were using their revolvers to good effect at close range, and the Germans were forced back.

  "Fall back!"

  Casca sighed when he heard the order and hurried to comply, pausing only long enough to grab the ammunition pouches and magazines of some Tommies who had died before they had used all of their miserly issue.

  They raced about five hundred yards to the reserve trench. Casca was relieved to see machine guns being set up and realized that they had not jammed or run out of ammunition but had stopped firing to be readied for this withdrawal.

  Behind them in the abandoned trenches sappers were at work frantically placing explosives and detonators and stringing wires. Dead men were being propped up, their empty rifles pointing threateningly toward where the next wave of Germans would come. Medics with red cross armbands were loading shot men onto mules or stretchers, but most of the wounded were left to add their groans and screams to the chorus from no-man's-land.

  From behind the trenches Casca heard horses and the squeal of wagon wheels, and shortly cases of ammunition were being passed along the trench. There was a quartermaster sergeant with the inevitable clipboard, and a corporal stood over each crate, but in the rush Casca found it easy to grab over a hundred rounds, and he quickly loaded the spare magazines that he had souvenired from the dead.

  The Germans had regrouped and were already leaping into the abandoned trenches. The British sappers set off their charges, and great eruptions of dirt and bits of bodies were blown skyward. The five-inch guns joined in the action and wreaked havoc amongst the confused Germans. But the delay was brief, and in a matter of minutes Casca was again standing to at the lip of the trench squeezing off shots into the advancing mass of Germans.

  "Bloody hopeless," he heard an infantryman lament. "It's a simple game of numbers – and they've got 'em. The way it's going, the Jerries will be in Paris for supper."

  Casca agreed. They had been rushed to Mons to reinforce the battered and outnumbered French Fifth Army, but their "contemptible little army" with its inadequate firepower was an insignificant contribution. It seemed clear that Casca had once again chosen the wrong side.

  The enemy apparently had men to spare and plenty of ammunition that they carried in ten- and twenty-round magazines. It also appeared that they carried their spare ammunition in already loaded magazines so that reloading took only a second, whereas, at best, an adept Tommy needed eight seconds to remove his empty magazine, squeeze in five new rounds, and replace the clip. And Casca mused, Seven seconds is a long time to hold an empty rifle.

  The empty trenches impeded the German advance and gave the five-inch guns attractive targets in the milling troops. The sappers had done a good job and were still deto
nating explosions that killed, confused, and demoralized the attackers. Those who survived pressed on toward the reserve trench but were whittled away by the machine guns and stubborn rifle fire. And where the Germans did succeed in making it into the British trenches, they were always at a disadvantage, unable to shoot because of their own numbers and forced to fight with their bayonets against defenders who outnumbered them in the trench.

  The longtime professionals, who made up the greater part of the Territorials, were very proficient with the bayonet. The British Army, it seemed, still thought of its infantry as pikemen, and they were trained and equipped accordingly.

  At sunset the Tommies still held this line, and as darkness fell the Germans withdrew.

  Another major appeared, somewhat different from the first. He said his name was Cartwright and congratulated the troops on their splendid resistance. Cartwright told them that he was aware of the ammunition supply problem and assured them that he was working on it. He gave the quite unnecessary warning that there would be an enemy attack at dawn and exhorted them to fight as valiantly again on the morrow as they had during this day.

  Best of all, Casca thought, he promoted a number of men to replace the decimated officers and NCOs, elevating the boy piper whose name was George Brotherstone to sergeant. Casca congratulated the new sergeant, and the youth grinned shyly.

  "Me mum and the bairns will be glad of the extra pay. And I get to keep the pipes too – there aren't any more boy pipers here. I'm right proud of the old bag." He patted the tartan affectionately. "These pipes were played at Culloden."

  Dinner was the usual disgusting mess – chunks of crudely butchered mutton cooked to the consistency of string in a mass of tasteless vegetables, all swimming in a greasy sort of watery soup.

  None of the men had blankets – they had made up part of the clumsy packs abandoned early in the battle – so they crowded around the few fires and dozed and yawned through the night.