- from 'the War Illustrated' 18th March, 1918
- 'Twenty Minutes in an Enemy Trench'
- F.O.O. in a Daylight Raid
Out with the Heavies
- waiting for the signal to attack
- all illustrations from 'the War Illustrated'
"Ten minutes to go yet," said the company commander, consulting his wrist-watch.
I was the F.O.O., or Forward Observation Officer, and we were standing together, chatting in whispers.
The sun-baked trench was unbearably hot ; overhead the bright blue sky of a midsummer noon was unrelieved by a single fleck of cloud.
The parapet, on either hand of us, was lined with men, every one fully equipped for the work in hand — bandoliers bulging with cartridges, bayonets fixed, emergency rations dangling in their little canvas bag, gas-helmet adjusted to the "ready" position, steel hats firmly fixed on every head.
The air was tense with an atmosphere of strained expectancy ; the men conversed with each other in nervous whispers, their eyes all the time wandering to their watches ; trembling fingers were fumbling with little details of kit, fastening here a strap, there tightening a belt ; only the officers made a pretence of indifference, and leaned against the trench wall idly watching the blue smoke from their cigarettes.
"Everything ready ?" I asked, turning round to address my signalling bombardier who, with a gunner from the battery, stood behind me, laden with gear — two drums of light cable, instruments, pliers, and the necessary material for mending breaks in the line.
"All O.K.," he replied, saluting.
"I've just been speaking to the battery, sir, and the line's a perfect treat !"
"Right-ho, bombardier ! We shall be off in a couple of minutes now."
"Two Minutes to Go"
The front had grown strangely quiet — perhaps the calm before the storm. An aeroplane flickered to and fro low over our heads ; a machine-gun, away somewhere on the left, stammered a few rounds; the gleaming bayonets now and again caught in the sunlight and flashed a deep crimson, as though stained in blood ; officers, whistle in mouth, were intent on the sluggard minute hand of their watches.
"Two minutes to go," said my friend. And down the trench passed the muttered message.
Round each little ladder, propped up against the parapet, half a dozen figures were clustered, My fingers were busy scratching in the mud, making a handhold. Then:
"Up !" shouted the company commander, but his voice was drowned by one whistling roar as the packed batteries in rear opened out in the intensive barrage.
In less than a minute the enemy's line ahead of us. was thickly veiled in a mass of smoke and dust, pierced in a hundred places by little bursts and pin-points of light as the shrapnel and high-explosive shells shed their deadly contents.
For a fleeting second my imagination flew to the enemy opposite us, all unprepared for the horror that had come upon him. I could picture sleepy figures rushing up the steps of subterranean dug-outs, officers vainly shouting down telephones, the trench lined with bleeding men.
But now we were over.
With a mighty heave I hoisted myself out, and began to run over the shell-pocked ground. The going was terrible. At every step masses of rusty barbed-wire bristled at one's feet, while slime-covered shell-holes were everywhere.
Two hundred yards in front of me our barrage danced and roared — the field-guns on the front line, the "heavies" concentrating on the reserve lines. Not a single Hun machine-gun opposed us as we rushed across that strip of Death's playground.
To every known or suspected position one special gun had been allotted ; every yard of his trench was literally smothered in shells.
British troops in an enemy trench
In the Enemy Trench
Now we were Hearing our objective, and already our guns had lengthened their fuses, and had lifted off the front line, leaving it to the infantry to finish the "mopping up" of the demoralised garrison.
At last, panting and gasping, I jumped into the friendly shelter of the battered trench, closely followed by my two men. Back behind us, across the desolation we had just crossed, snaked a black ribbon of wire.
"Now then, look sharp and get connected !' I ordered. And, leaving the two men busy with their task, I went down the trench to search for my friend.
And what a sight met my eyes ! Ruined parapets, their sandbags torn and gaping, broken traverses crushing in their fall dug-outs formerly sheltering under their lee; blown- in doorways, with a glimpse of wooden steps descending to the blackness below, and everywhere pools of blood and men, lying in every conceivable position, many dead, some wounded, groaning in their agony, mangled limbs, crushed under great beams, there a severed hand still grasping a revolver.
And still the devil's tattoo roared on ahead of us, the shouting of our men as they came to grips with the Germans, the bursting of bombs, the clashing of bayonet against bayonet, the shrieks and yells of men in mortal conflict, all blended into one great discord.
Enfiladed!
And then came a shouting behind me.
"We're through, sir !" rang the triumphant voice of my bombardier.
"Hallo — hallo — hallo !" — the racket around me was frightful — "Is that battery ? Put me through to group !"
A moment's pause.
"Hallo, sir ! Is that the colonel, sir ? Oh, it's Smith talking, sir, from the Boche trench. We've got here all right ; very few casualties. What's that, sir ? Oh, the Boche barrage F Very poor, indeed, sir. Hardly bothered us at all yet. I expect I shall have------"
Our conversation was rudely interrupted. Flying round the traverse came the company commander, hat off, his tunic covered with blood.
"Smith !" he shouted. "For God's sake, get a battery on to Dead Cow Farm over there ! Those devils have got it full of machine-guns enfilading us !"
"Ring off, please, sir!" I shouted back into the telephone with scant ceremony.
"Hallo, Exchange ! Hallo, hallo ! Give me battery again — quick !"
An agonising wait.
I glanced at my mud-covered map, and mentally noted the position of the troublesome farm.
"Battery speaking, sir !" said my bombardier at last.
“Here, order 'Cease fire,' and get off to this target as quick as light. Dead Cow Farm, X24 dj5. Ten rounds rapid, and I'll let you know how the shooting goes !"
I dashed down the trench to where, by crawling on a little hummock over the parapet, I could see my target.
Only the shattered walls of the farm remained, but from behind these came the staccato tac-tac, with a steady rush of bullets, as the Hun gunners poured in their rain of lead. Then :
"Battery opened fire!" came the shouted message to me, and crash — crash — crash — crash ! came the first four rounds, all a little beyond the target.
"Tell 'em to shorten fifty !" I ordered, and waited, eyes glued to my glasses, for the next salvo.
Ah, there it came ! One, two, three, four — two direct hits, one "dud," and one just in the courtyard.
attacking in an enemy trench
A Deadly Curtain
But now our time was drawing short. Already the whistles of the officers were sounding the recall. Across No Man's Land a score of prisoners were hobbling, running for dear life to reach the friendly shelter of the British trench.
One by one our men slipped over the Parapet, many burdened with a German helmet, a souvenir for those at home ; now the company commander was going — only I was left. Already I could hear the Germans coming back up the communication trench. Then :
"Barrage back on the Boche front-line !" I roared down the telephone. My two men were already scrambling out of the trench. With a jerk of my knife I cut the wires, picked up the instrument and, with a heave, was out in the open again. And then down dropped the barrage, a solid wall of protection to cover our retreat. No Hun machine-gunner dare put up his weapon under that deadly curtain, -no sniper dare show himself to shoot at the backs receding from him.
Fifteen minutes the guns kept up their roaring beat, the fire slackened, changed to desultory rounds, and finally ceased.
Back in our trench the roll was being called, the doctor was busy with his bandages.
And the raid was over.
in the mud of No-Man's Land
