My Hundred Days of War, page 15
The sad thing was, I almost didn’t care. This war was going to get us all. I guess I was blessed I’d made it this far. A lot of others hadn’t.
The loud thud of a Mills bomb pulled me out of it. There were rifle shots.
‘God damn Heine,’ I heard someone exclaim. And then, in my direction: ‘We got ‘em, sir.’
‘Well done,’ I enthused, and I scrambled to my feet and rejoined them. The first soldier I saw I patted on the shoulder in a gesture of thanks and relief, and offered him my canteen. He took a long thirsty swallow and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Then tilted it to one side and spit a stream into the pit where five Germans lay crumpled over their gun.
Our file regrouped and pressed on further into the wood. The Highlanders moved with a certain recklessness and vicious desperation, their faces bone-weary, their eyes hard and cold. The wood was packed with enemy gunners, but the advance steam-rolled ahead in a wild melee of bombs and bayonets.
Exiting the eastern side of the Bois de Bouche, the platoon I was with almost stumbled upon an enemy party moving up as reinforcements. Hastily, the Germans threw their hands in the air, a mixture of fear and resigned acceptance written on their faces.
‘One minute they’re fighting like madmen, and the next they’re surrendering in shoals,’ said Maxwell-Scott, the company lieutenant, sidling up to me. ‘But we’ve taken the wood.’
‘Yes, and a bloody good thing too,’ I said. ‘Without it, all the morning’s gains would have been for nought. General Macdonell will be mightily relieved. Only where is our support on the flanks? We’re still out on a limb here.’ The Imperials were nowhere to be seen. And the left was also deserted, save for some Boche gunners who were sending a hail of fire our way.
‘The 14th should be up at any moment. They were already past Cagnicourt. I don’t know what’s keeping them. But I’m sending a runner back to HQ. Do you have anything, Major?’ Before I could respond, there was a whoosh and a shell exploded in the wood behind, closely followed by others.
‘That didn’t take them long,’ I muttered. ‘We need some reinforcements.’ Which, other than the news that we’d taken the Bois de Bouche, was more or less the gist of my message for General Macdonell. We pushed on a few hundred frantic yards east of the wood, and hunkered down, hoping for the sight of troops on either flank, but saw none.
We were taking fire from all around. Finally I said, ‘We’re going to have to move.’ Beside me a corporal patted down his helmet in anticipation. ‘Where’s the lieutenant gone to?’ I asked.
‘He fell five minutes ago, sir,’ he replied. I winced. There were almost no officers left.
‘Well, let’s get a move on. Staying here is going to get us all killed.’
Less than a mile east of the Bois de Bouche, down a long descending slope and up another, was the heavily wired line of the Buissy Switch – the last trench system we faced. I could see it from where I stood and I was glad it wasn’t the Highlanders’ objective. My platoon broke right, keeping roughly parallel, and headed for their own objective, the railway embankment.
Halfway between the embankment and us was Queer Street, a communication trench that extended at right angles from the Buissy Switch. It ran alongside a road heading back west to the D-Q Line. We’d have to cross both the trench and the road, and then another 500 yards, to reach our destination.
I took a deep breath and let the air seep out very slowly. It wasn’t the distance that was intimidating. My Gram could have crossed it in five minutes – without her cane. But across open fields with little cover, and bullets coming from three sides of the compass, it seemed hellish long. Luckily I’d had the good sense to offload the Lewis gun onto a willing soldier. By the way he grabbed it, he had a better idea how to handle it than I did.
We moved in small sections, desperate 50 yard rushes, with those behind laying down a covering fire. Rush, fire, repeat. The grass-grown lip of Queer Street Trench was a welcome beacon and we piled into it, expecting a fight. However, No. 4 Company had beaten us to it. And there were others.
‘We’re 3rd Battalion, sir,’ they explained. One shrugged in puzzlement when I inquired whether the general had sent them. Regardless, they were a blessing.
Accompanied by one of their companies, we reached the railway embankment and dug in. A Major Kippen from the 3rd Battalion set about organizing an outpost line with a handful of rifles and a few Lewis guns. Scouts were sent out to watch the flanks.
It was an hour or two later, past 3.30 p.m., when Kippen waved me over. A runner squatted next to him. I did the same. ‘Good news,’ he said. ‘The rest of the Highlanders made contact with the 14th. They’ve come up and they’re starting to work their way down the Buissy Switch. So our left is secure.’
‘And the Imperials?’ I asked. He shook his head.
‘Perhaps I should head back, and see if I can find a telephone…’ I began.
‘Aeroplanes!’
Both of us swung round. They came as a flight of black specks from the south. At first they seemed to move slowly, but as they approached, their speed increased. Until they were almost upon us.
‘Hun!’ shouted someone, unhelpfully. Smith, whose knowledge of aeroplanes was nothing short of encyclopedic, had remarked that even I ought to be able to spot a Fokker triplane. He wasn’t wrong.
They came in low and we all ducked involuntarily. With a loud droning they buzzed over, one after another, like a flock of malignant jet black crows. More than twenty all told. Their guns were silent, no doubt awaiting the many targets they’d find up by the Arras-Cambrai road in a minute or two.
A Lewis gun began to rattle. The planes swept on. However, now the Boche opened up. Whether it was the Lewis gun, or simply the boost to morale from seeing planes of their own, an entire battery of machine guns in the Buissy Switch, and off to our right, took the embankment under fire. And I heard the unmistakeable bang of their 77m field gun – the one I’d seen being set on the road not long before.
The Boche had been shooting at us all day, but for some reason this appeared to infuriate the men. Every rifle and Lewis gun along the embankment began firing back. The next few minutes were chaos.
There was a shout. ‘Look lads, Lieutenant Lewis got the field gunners.’ Momentarily forgetting the old wisdom regarding curiosity and cats, I pulled myself up the embankment, with my elbows, to get a better look. Through the field glasses I spotted the gun. The crew was down alright. Yes! Then someone took a crowbar to my arm.
I felt a searing pain halfway between shoulder and elbow. Dust billowed up all around me and belatedly I heard the Maxim’s telltale beat. I slid back down the embankment and placed the palm of a hand against my left arm. It was wet and clammy. I twisted it to look better and saw it coated in blood. I struggled to get to my knees. Suddenly the hunger, thirst, and fatigue hit me like a hammer, and I began to sway. I reached out to the gravel to steady myself.
‘I’m hit,’ I must have said. I remember thinking that at least I’d been there when we stormed the famous D-Q Line. Then everything faded into black.
CHAPTER 16
3rd of September, 1918
Cagnicourt, France
At the sound of shelling I woke, confused. Until I noticed the left sleeve of my tunic. It had been cut open and a white dressing was wrapped around my upper arm. I wiggled my fingers, then moved my hands. They were fine. In my arm I felt a dull throbbing pain.
When I first came to, not long after I collapsed, I remembered staring down my body and to my great relief saw my boots. I’m not sure what I was expecting, as my feet hadn’t been anywhere near the action. It was a fear I’ve had ever since I helped out our first CSM, poor Tom Atkins, back in ‘15. He was a rough old geezer, like every company sergeant-major I’d met, before or since, with a harsh bark for anyone who stepped out of line, which is all too easily done by a young private. But not unkind. He was so tough and gnarled we thought nothing could stop him, until a Fish Tail landed in the trench beside him. It took me a long time to get over the sight – that rock of a man, still alive, two bloody stumps hanging where his legs used to be.
‘What time is it?’ I asked. Someone had removed my wristwatch. I was curled up against the embankment, had nodded off now and again, only to be woken by the flashes, thunder, and shaking of another Boche bombardment. Other than the sentries, who were warily looking east, watchful for any signs of a counter-attack out of the Buissy Switch, most of the men were doing the same. They had their rifles resting against them as they dozed. I’d found a Lee-Enfield of my own, and with a grunt I lifted it up from where it had fallen. Bad arm or not, I might need it.
‘Half-past one,’ replied the man beside me. ‘I don’t know whether you heard, sir?’ I shook my head. ‘We’re to be relieved.’
And those were the most relieving few words I could have imagined.
Within an hour we began straggling back in the dark towards the dug-outs of the once impregnable D-Q Line. There I slept for a few hours until dawn. After a sober breakfast, consisting of dry rations and water, I made east – no longer the intimidating walk of a day earlier – until I hit the road from Cagnicourt. I turned north on to it, in the direction of the village. At Cagnicourt was an Advanced Dressing Station, I was told. It wasn’t difficult to find.
Immediately east of the village, in a crook in the road, was the triangle-shaped plot of the communal cemetery. The Germans, being Germans, had built a deep dug-out underneath it. Once we’d taken it, the medical corps had put in their claim. For a medical post, the location struck me as mildly ominous.
Fortunately, after I’d navigated the steep stone staircase and the scrutiny of a sergeant from the medical corps who peppered me with questions and probed at my arm, I heard that I had little to fear.
‘So. That’s that,’ said the orderly, putting away his scissors and a roll of gauze. ‘It’s a good blighty, sir.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted a naughty one on my hands.’ Naturally I knew very well what he meant, but I was feeling better. The cup of hot tea had helped. As did the fact the pain was subsiding.
The orderly frowned – in fairness, I imagine his was not the most humourful of professions. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘what I meant is your wound is a good one. That’s often the case with the machine guns. The bullets go right through. The only worry is if they hit an organ or a bone. However, in your case, it looks fine. I’ve cleaned the wound and redressed it. So you’re ready to go. You’ll be sent to Arras, although I’m not sure when that will be. We’ve got a lot of serious cases and of course they have priority for the transport.’
After spending hours sitting fitfully outside the dug-out entrance on a small wooden stool in a field full of apple trees and stretchers, I was beginning to wonder how low a priority I was. The stretcher-bearers had stopped risking the treacherous climb down below, to avoid the casualties landing prematurely in the plots up above. So the field was filling up. I watched as an olive green Ford pulled in. The side of the road was occupied by three field ambulance cars that were being loaded. The Ford simply stopped beside them. The door opened and an officer, who seemed vaguely familiar, stepped out. I squinted, and then I recognized him.
‘Smith!’ I shouted. Smith looked over and waved. He stepped carefully around the two rows of stretchers guarding the approaches to where I sat.
‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here?’ I said, aware that despite the pain, I was sporting a grin that went from here to Calais. It shouldn’t have mattered, but I was thrilled to see a familiar face.
‘I’m glad to see you, sir,’ he said, and saluted. Exactly as he should, although I would have settled for a hug, even if that wasn’t the army way. He was staring at my arm, which hung limply by my side.
‘Don’t mind that,’ I said. ‘It looks worse than it is. They tell me I’ll be fine. However did you find me?’
‘We got word you were wounded. Lieutenant-Colonel Peck from the 16th Battalion phoned Colonel Hore-Ruthven this morning. He said he’d seen you not long after you were hit. So the colonel asked the ADMS to find out where the dressing stations were. After that it was merely a question of spending some time with a map. This seemed logical. So here I am.’ Smith could be a bull-terrier when he had something on his mind. I knew how smart he was, yet he never ceased to amaze me.
‘And you travelled here just to see me?’
‘Not entirely, sir. We’re to relieve the 4th Division and General Lipsett wanted me to go over the ground. I thought I’d take a small detour.’
‘I’m happy you did. Come have a seat.’ With my uninjured arm I pulled over a stool. Soon I was explaining all that had happened. And soon after that I was asking the same of him.
‘We did it, sir. We smashed the D-Q Line, exactly as General Currie intended.’
‘When I saw the boys in action, I never had any doubts,’ I said. ‘The D-Q was everything we feared. There were some dicey moments… but the men wouldn’t give up. What happened on the left?’
‘The 4th Division had a lot of heavy fighting, as well, sir. They didn’t make it quite as far the 1st Division, but they still managed to crack the line and take Dury and Villers-lez-Cagnicourt. Dury was a veritable fortress. The Brits had it easier, but they also broke through.’
‘And the Canal du Nord?’
I could see from his expression that not everything had gone according to plan. ‘General Currie sent Brutinel’s Brigade tearing down the road towards Cambrai and the canal,’ he said. ‘We hoped to seize the Marquion Bridge. Of course, the armoured cars had to stick to the road. With the Boche shooting over open sights, they didn’t get far. The morning air patrols reported that the Germans are blowing the bridges.’
‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘It was a gamble worth taking, though.’
Smith nodded. From the expression on his face, I could see he was disappointed. I wasn’t surprised, but I did share his disappointment. We’d done what no one would have held for possible a few short weeks ago. But I found it hard to bask in the glow of victory. That wasn’t simply because a 7.92mm bullet had torn a hole in my arm. We’d smashed Hindenburg’s line, only a huge new obstacle had already presented itself: the canal. That was enough to put a damper on anyone’s spirits.
‘The air patrols did report one other thing,’ said Smith slowly. A cautious smile appeared on his face. ‘They couldn’t see a single German between here and the canal. It appears they pulled out last night. Also, the Third Army took Quéant and Pronville south of us without as much as a fight. The Germans are withdrawing to the outposts of the Hindenburg Line, all along their entire front. Between the Aussies at Mont St. Quentin, and what we did here, they had no choice. They’re in full retreat.’
‘The hinge of the Hindenburg system,’ I murmured.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Oh, just thinking. The generals actually got it right. Perhaps all our sacrifices did achieve something.’
A bespectacled sergeant appeared, a red cross prominently displayed on his sleeve, clipboard in hand. ‘Major MacPhail? Your transport has arrived,’ he said, and pointed at a horse-drawn wagon emblazoned with an even bigger red cross. ‘We have room for one more man. It’ll take you to the light railway, sir, and you’ll be in Arras before you know it.’
I rose to my feet. Smith made to salute, but before he could, I grabbed his hand and shook it. ‘I’m not sure when we’ll see each other again. Take care, and good luck, Lieutenant. Who knows, GHQ may find someone besides the Corps to assault the canal.’ Naturally, I meant it well, even if the odds of that happening seemed as slim as me being sent home. But I wanted to end on a positive note.
CHAPTER 17
4th of September, 1918
Arras, France
Medical Officer Major Andrew Pierce was a man who, by all appearances, took great pleasure in his work, even if his bedside manner needed some polishing. He’d conjured up a needle the size and shape of a pencil and was flicking it with his finger in front of my face. ‘This might sting for a second. A tetanus shot,’ he cheerfully explained, before ramming it into my backside.
I groaned and curled my toes into a ball. I would have screamed had there not been an entire dressing room watching and listening.
‘You’re an extraordinarily lucky man, Major,’ he proclaimed, as I struggled to pull up my pants with one hand.
‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ I said, a little cantankerously.
‘Tell me, what were you doing when you were shot?’
‘I was looking through my field glasses, I believe.’
‘Yes, that would explain it. Your wound is on the underside of the arm where I wouldn’t generally expect it.’
I must have looked puzzled for he felt compelled to explain. ‘See,’ he said as he raised his arms to simulate holding field glasses to his eyes. ‘The skin and any fat naturally sinks when you raise your arms, and then tightens when they’re lowered to your side. The angle of the wound is all wrong if your arms had been down.’
‘Ah,’ I replied.
‘What did they tell you at the dressing station?’
‘That I’d live. And to take a seat.’
Pierce pulled a grimace. ‘Well there’s little time for hand-holding at the dressing stations in the field. Nor here for that matter. But with the attack winding down it’s fortunately not as hectic as it was. In actual fact the bullet only pierced the lower flesh of your arm.’
‘So, it’s a scratch?’ I said interrupting.
‘No, it’s a little more than a scratch, Major. Moreover, I’m positive it doesn’t feel like one. Your good fortune is that it wasn’t somewhere else; half an inch higher and it might have hit the brachial artery. However, it didn’t, and it’s a clean wound. I expect you’ll be back in the thick of it in no time.’
