My Hundred Days of War, page 30
Minutes later we were turning to move back southwestwards, hugging the clumps of trees that were much denser on this rear slope of the hillock. We were divided into three groups. I was with four others whom the sergeant had entrusted to me. All had their rifles cradled at hip level. A general would have called this the left prong of the attack. We had the furthest to go.
In fact we didn’t reach our objective before the shooting began. A volley of rifle shots. Upon hearing them, we ran pell-mell in the direction of what appeared as a rough “H” on the map. Somehow I reached the trench first and slid down into it. It was a crude affair, not at all like those we’d encountered earlier, roughly dug with none of the finishing touches for which the Germans were known. The others followed close on my heels.
The fight, such as it was, didn’t last more than a minute. We discovered a group of five crouched behind a crude log barricade looking west, at the end of one arm of the H. They were dealt with in short order. Two others we missed. We saw them sprint from the far end of the trench towards the trees, heading in the direction of home.
One of our men fired a few shots until I said, ‘Leave it. You’re just going to hit a squirrel. There’s little enough wildlife around here as it is.’
‘That’s right, Mason,’ said a soldier. ‘You missed the bucks by a long shot, anyhow.’
We all smiled, which comes easily when your blood is still pumping madly, the fight is over and everybody is in one piece.
After this we advanced almost without a hitch through the forest. We zig-zagged along the roads and paths for the most part, heading east for more than 3 miles until eventually we came to the road in the map quadrant Q22.a, our objective for the day. It was late afternoon. Already the sun was making its retreat. I decided to press on a bit. Together with a soldier we crossed the road and plunged into the bush.
The private and I became separated from the others around this time. I figured we were only a few steps ahead. Knowing the scouts and how they’d blazoned their way through the forest, they’d be past us in no time. So Timmy Collins and I, for that’s what the young private was called, pushed on.
It was our speed which proved fatal. That, and a certain dulling of the senses. Since our morning skirmish we’d encountered only a handful of Germans. We met another party of scouts, but mainly it was an endless succession of trees, fallen logs and underbrush obscuring ruts in the ground. That’s why we finally stuck to the paths, where thoughts inevitably turned to other things, like dreams of a billet with a full pot and a warm bed. I ought to have known better. I was the major and it wasn’t as if I was lacking in combat experience – Christ, the past two months had been nothing else. I suppose I was anxious to report to the general and Hore-Ruthven that we’d taken all the objectives, not hindered by a lack of proper intelligence.
The clearing was like every other. Reedy grass, the faded stumps of a half dozen trees. Collins stepped out, and a footstep later so did I. Then I heard the metallic click click of a rifle bolt. It’s a sound like no other. My heart skipped a beat and my head jerked up. Ahead I saw a colour that didn’t come naturally to forests in France. It was field-grey.
‘Oh, shit,’ I heard beside me.
Uneasily, I stopped in my tracks and stared at them.
Not a word passed. There wasn’t much need for words. The thick black tube of a MG 08 was pointed straight at us. If that wasn’t clear enough, four rifles were as well.
I dropped the rifle and slowly raised my hands into the air.
CHAPTER 35
23rd of October, 1918
Forêt de Raismes, France
Once relieved of our weapons, we were led to a freshly dug hole. I handed my Webley, a few Mills bombs and my Borgel wristwatch to a short, pock-faced fellow with a corporal’s button on his collar. He sported a stahlhelm too big for his head, a sour look, and a dark brush-cut moustache that seemed to be the latest fashion with the Fritzs. I kept hoping that a party of scouts might appear. But they didn’t. The Germans, however, seemed as ill-prepared for our capture as we were. They were discussing the matter amongst themselves, just loud enough for us to hear.
‘What are they saying?’ whispered Timmy. Timmy was from Montreal. While he might have spoken a word or two of French, he’d hadn’t learned any German in the first eighteen years of his life. If things didn’t take a turn for the better, both of us might soon be learning a lot more.
‘I’m not sure exactly,’ I said, ‘but they don’t seem to know what to do with us.’
A voice raised above the others said, ‘Aber der Hauptmann...’ Then multiple voices spoke up, all at once. It sounded like a disagreement.
Timmy looked frightful. ‘What’s that?’
‘Quiet,’ I breathed. ‘They’re talking about me.’ I wasn’t a captain, contrary to what the Boche seemed to think, but an intelligence officer of any rank would be quite a prize. Thankfully, from the couple of words of German I did know (intelligence officer being one of them), they hadn’t caught on. From what I’d heard until now, they spoke no more than a half-dozen words of English between them, so an interrogation was out of the question.
The discussion ended quickly. I never did learn the conclusion, but thankfully shooting us didn’t appear to be one of the options. The Germans had opted to eat instead. Two of their brethren were stationed on lookout, while the others dedicated themselves to their food. They didn’t bother to offer anything in our direction. From the looks of them they were ravenous.
Timmy had gotten over his nerves sufficiently, for his stomach to take over the talking. ‘I wish they’d give us something to eat, sir. I’m starving.’
‘Have some water,’ I grunted, and passed him my canteen.
As the sun began to set I realized the corporal and his squad had no intent of pulling back. For that I was thankful. Here in the Forêt de Raismes we might have some slim chance of escape. The Germans were obviously a rearguard with orders to hold fast, although if it came down to it, the battalion would run them over and barely pause for breath. I wondered if they knew that. Of course, if that did happen, I didn’t give much for our own chances. We’d be mowed down like the rest.
I took a look around. In front was the machine gun, deftly concealed behind a pile of brushwood. Either side, covering the flanks, were two slit trenches. The Germans had taken to calling them fox-holes. When I first heard the expression, I found it rather amusing. In our own small hole, which would barely fit a fox let alone two, I failed to see the humour any more. To our rear was a length of covered trench, a ditch really, which the Germans were using to rest in and store their gear, including that what they’d stripped off us. It was all very makeshift, definitely no D-Q Line.
As night fell the forest took on a life of its own. Trees creaked and groaned with each murmur of the wind. An owl – at least I took it to be an owl – made horrible screeching sounds, the kind that send shivers down your spine. The sky was clear and the air cold. The sentry was seated on a tree stump watching us carefully. He pulled up the collar of his coat. Not having coats ourselves, there was nothing for Collins and me to do but huddle together and try to get some sleep.
For a spell I hoped the soldier might doze off, but every time we so much as changed sides, I saw him straighten and clench his rifle as if he feared we’d jump him. One of us might make it, but not both. After a couple of hours watching him, as my left arm started to ache and I lay shivering on the cold ground, I gave up and surrendered to the exhaustion.
Dawn came early. Which is not to say that it was light, only that the Germans were awake. Although we weren’t offered scones with jam and a hot cup of tea, a young lad did prod us with his foot, and when he saw we were awake threw us each a chunk of bread. ‘Guten appetit,’ he said. I nodded gratefully, and Collins started in immediately.
The soldier stood there a few paces away, watching us eat. I wondered if he’d had as bad a night as I had. I was dead tired, cold, sore and apprehensive. This was not how I’d envisaged my war ending.
As I took a final bite of the coarse brown bread, I stared at him and noticed that I’d gotten his attention. ‘Do you hear them?’ I said softly. I cupped a hand to one ear and pointed forward with the other. ‘They’re coming. Sie kommen.’ Collins was looking at me as if I’d lost my marbles, for there wasn’t a sound to be heard.
The soldier ignored me and looked away.
‘And when they arrive… Kaputt,’ I said, ‘Kaputt oder Tot (broken or dead).’ For effect I shot myself in the temple with my finger.
He pretended not to, but from the corner of his eye he was still watching me.
In a slow arcing motion, with my finger extended, I pointed westwards. ‘They’re coming,’ I said. ‘Schnell. Sie komen Schnell.’
At this he turned on his heel and returned to the trench. I saw three of the others gather round him.
A mist had formed during the night. As the sky brightened, the line of trees surrounding the clearing was barely visible. Wreaths of fog hung almost motionless, and behind them the dark forms of the forest: a scene from Hansel and Gretel. When I was boy I’d lain awake half the night the first time it was read to me.
I turned to Collins. ‘I hope you’re ready,’ I said.
‘What for, sir?’
‘We may have to make a run for it.’
Collins eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. He only nodded.
However, the soldier who was watching us from afar – Hans, one of his mates had called him – was taking no chances. I had the feeling he was more fearful of his corporal than of us. The more I saw of his corporal, the more I understood. There were six of them all told, including the corporal. That was at least three or four too many for Collins and I. Their routine was fixed; one man to keep guard; four forward with rifles and manning the MG, the corporal moving between them.
I began to whistle – loudly – the tune from the Maple Leaf Forever. I don’t imagine the Germans had ever heard it before and I always found it to be an uplifting ditty, somehow oddly appropriate. Collins broke into a smile and joined in. Luckily. He kept a tune much better than I did.
The corporal bustled over. ‘Ruhe,’ he hissed. While I didn’t understand, there was no misunderstanding his meaning. And just in case we had, he pulled out a foot-long bayonet that glistened even in the mist and pointed it menacingly in my direction. Cowed we both stopped whistling.
He took a step toward me, brandishing the bayonet. He had a wild angry look to him.
‘Shhh,’ I whispered. I cupped a hand to my ear.
The corporal stopped, the dark intensity of his gaze softening, replaced by uncertainty.
I cocked my headed to one side. ‘Did you hear that, Collins?’ I said.
This time Collins played along. ‘Yes sir, I did.’
‘Yes,’ said the corporal in a thick accent. He listened too. I knew from his insignia he was a Bavarian. ‘Was ist los?’
‘Soldaten,’ I mumbled with a shrug, and looked away.
The corporal’s natural frown returned, which had the effect that his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows and moustache bristled. To say that he looked like a plum left to shrivel on a tree was no exaggeration.
I smiled at him.
The corporal cursed, sheathed his bayonet, and snarled something at the sentry. Then he rushed over to the MG.
I winked at the soldier whose duty it was to watch over us. He gave me a shy smile.
It didn’t take long before actual sounds of combat could be heard. They were far off, but there was no mistaking that they were rifle shots. It was light and the attack would be on again. The Germans hurriedly began rechecking their kit. The youth, a pleasant looking fellow with fine features, fair hair and brilliant blue eyes, kept nervously looking over his shoulder.
There was another volley of rifle fire. Closer this time.
Then I saw the soldier stiffen and I quickly understood why. The corporal was heading our way.
‘Look awake, Collins,’ I whispered.
I stood up and made as if I was awaiting the corporal’s arrival.
‘Bleiben Sie sitzen!,’ he growled. As instructions go it was clear enough; I was to stay seated. But instead I shrugged, in that universal gesture of bafflement, and looked down submissively at my feet.
The corporal quickened his pace. As he reached me, he extended his arm intending to push me to the ground.
Which was when I hit him. A left to the gut. A soft blow, but it caught him off guard and he leaned forward, winded. I followed up with a right uppercut. A hard uncompromising punch. As hard as I could manage in the circumstances. My knuckles smashed into his chin and his head jolted back. He teetered and as he did so, I snatched at his belt and pulled out the bayonet.
With my left arm I grabbed his collar in my fist. With the other I held the blade rigidly against his stomach, the razor-sharp tip just piercing the cloth of his tunic.
Behind him the sentry had regained his wits. He was standing, his rifle pointed uncertainly at us. The corporal’s back was the only clear shot.
Collins was also on his feet. The commotion had alarmed the others who were abandoning their positions and moving towards us.
The corporal looked ready to say something so I gave the bayonet a sharp prod. He winced, stifling a curse.
It soon devolved into a classic Mexican standoff; me keeping a firm grip on the corporal’s collar, the five soldiers of his squad spread out in a semi-circle with their rifles pointed at us. I wasn’t in an ideal position. The corporal was still in shock, but that would wear off soon enough. Plus he had has hands free. There was only the threat of the dagger to keep him in line. Something was going to have to happen and fast.
‘It’s a shame you don’t speak any German, Collins,’ I said, quietly. ‘So we’ll have to do a little mime. Put your hands in the air like you’re surrendering.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard me. Do it.’
Hesitatingly, Collins raised his arms and the Germans glanced at each other in disbelief – they hadn’t expected this.
‘Now lower them.’ Collins did.
‘Und jetzt Sie (and now you),’ I said, raising my voice. It was something Smith had taught me. ‘Kamerad, Kamerad,’ I added. I said it exactly like I’d heard so many times before as some Fritz crawled out of his hole. The soldiers looked at each other. As hints go, even King Ludwig II of Bavaria would have understood and he was even madder than his cousin Kaiser Wilhelm. ‘Come,’ I said, ‘the war’s almost over. It’s time to surrender. Unless you want to be back in his hands.’ Roughly I pushed the corporal a half-step in their direction.
The corporal inhaled deeply, like he was steeling himself for something, so I pressed the bayonet hard into him. He yelped in pain, but said nothing. I could feel the resistance seep out of him. The soldiers exchanged words, then suddenly one of them threw his rifle on to the ground, muttering something I didn’t understand. It was the fellow who’d brought us bread this morning. Then Hans our blue-eyed sentry did the same. After a moment’s hesitation the others followed, and they all just stood there, watching us.
I took a step back and as I did so, violently yanked the corporal to the ground where he wouldn’t cause any trouble. ‘Collins, look after him,’ I ordered.
And with that it was over.
I didn’t rest easy, however, until the first soldiers from the 42nd Highlanders appeared, roughly a half-hour later.
‘Smith!’ I cried when I saw him, as a second group of soldiers moved into the clearing. I barely recognised him with his helmet down low and a Webley in hand, until he was right up to me.
‘The colonel sent me, sir. You were reported missing…’ I knew from his voice there were a thousand questions he wanted to ask.
‘A few hours,’ I said, ‘Nothing to fret about. And already you’ve taken my place?’ Naturally, I said it in jest, although I think Smith took it altogether more seriously.
‘No, sir, but the colonel felt we needed an intelligence officer in the field. He thought I might be able to assist in locating you.’
I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well done in that case,’ I said, ‘you’ve found me.’
‘What happened, sir? You and the private went missing and you turn up this morning with six prisoners?’
A couple of months ago I would have seen this as the perfect opening for a tall tale. No longer. The overall war had never gone better, yet my own war was strewn with the sort of booby-traps the Germans were leaving everywhere. Or perhaps it was simply that after almost four years at the front, I too had succumbed to the war of attrition. ‘I let my eagerness get the better of me,’ I said. ‘Fortunately it worked out all right.’ Then seeing his face bursting with curiosity, I told him the whole story.
I remained with the battalion for the remainder of the day. The advance went swiftly, even if danger lurked behind each log and ditch, snipers and machine gunners hidden everywhere. The enemy either retreated, or were cut down in a hail of fire from the flanks. Carefully, but inexorably, the scouts pressed forward. By nightfall the entire Forêt de Raismes was in our hands, we were approaching the Canal de l’Escaut where it turned north to the crossroads village of Condé, and we were past Valenciennes to the south. The forest, an astonishing five miles in length – a terrain built for the defender and that might have reasonably held us for days, if not weeks – we had captured in little more than a day.
For some reason General Lipsett came to mind. He would have been proud. To think of all that had happened, from that brief moment only 80-odd days ago near Amiens, when he told me we were to go on the offensive. It was astounding.
