Mr. Standfast
machine-guns. There’s a machine-gun school near by and we got all the
men who were taking the course and all the plant.”
I don’t suppose there was ever such a force put into the field before.
It was a wilder medley than Moussy’s camp-followers at First Ypres.
There was every kind of detail in the shape of men returning from
leave, representing most of the regiments in the army. There were the
men from the machine-gun school. There were Corps troops—sappers and
A.S.C., and a handful of Corps cavalry. Above all, there was a batch of
American engineers, fathered by Blenkiron. I inspected them where they
were drilling and liked the look of them. “Forty-eight hours,” I said
to myself. “With luck we may just pull it off.”
Then I borrowed a bicycle and went back to the division. But before I
left I had a word with Archie. “This is one big game of bluff, and it’s
you fellows alone that enable us to play it. Tell your people that
everything depends on them. They mustn’t stint the planes in this
sector, for if the Boche once suspicions how little he’s got before him
the game’s up. He’s not a fool and he knows that this is the short road
to Amiens, but he imagines we’re holding it in strength. If we keep up
the fiction for another two days the thing’s done. You say he’s pushing
up troops?”
“Yes, and he’s sendin’ forward his tanks.”
“Well, that’ll take time. He’s slower now than a week ago and he’s got
a deuce of a country to march over. There’s still an outside chance we
may win through. You go home and tell the R.F.C. what I’ve told you.”
He nodded. “By the way, sir, Pienaar’s with the squadron. He would like
to come up and see you.”
“Archie,” I said solemnly, “be a good chap and do me a favour. If I
think Peter’s anywhere near the line I’ll go off my head with worry.
This is no place for a man with a bad leg. He should have been in
England days ago. Can’t you get him off—to Amiens, anyhow?”
“We scarcely like to. You see, we’re all desperately sorry for him, his
fun gone and his career over and all that. He likes bein’ with us and
listenin’ to our yarns. He has been up once or twice too. The
Shark-Gladas. He swears it’s a great make, and certainly he knows how
to handle the little devil.”
“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t let him do it again. I look to you,
Archie, remember. Promise.”
“Funny thing, but he’s always worryin’ about you. He has a map on which
he marks every day the changes in the position, and he’d hobble a mile
to pump any of our fellows who have been up your way.”
That night under cover of darkness I drew back the division to the
newly prepared lines. We got away easily, for the enemy was busy with
his own affairs. I suspected a relief by fresh troops.
There was no time to lose, and I can tell you I toiled to get things
straight before dawn. I would have liked to send my own fellows back to
rest, but I couldn’t spare them yet. I wanted them to stiffen the fresh
lot, for they were veterans. The new position was arranged on the same
principles as the old front which had been broken on March 21st. There
was our forward zone, consisting of an outpost line and redoubts, very
cleverly sited, and a line of resistance. Well behind it were the
trenches which formed the battle-zone. Both zones were heavily wired,
and we had plenty of machine-guns; I wish I could say we had plenty of
men who knew how to use them. The outposts were merely to give the
alarm and fall back to the line of resistance which was to hold out to
the last. In the forward zone I put the freshest of my own men, the
units being brought up to something like strength by the details
returning from leave that the Corps had commandeered. With them I put
the American engineers, partly in the redoubts and partly in companies
for counter-attack. Blenkiron had reported that they could shoot like
Dan’l Boone, and were simply spoiling for a fight. The rest of the
force was in the battle-zone, which was our last hope. If that went the
Boche had a clear walk to Amiens. Some additional field batteries had
been brought up to support our very weak divisional artillery. The
front was so long that I had to put all three of my emaciated brigades
in the line, so I had nothing to speak of in reserve. It was a most
almighty gamble.
We had found shelter just in time. At 6.30 next day—for a change it was
a clear morning with clouds beginning to bank up from the west—the
Boche let us know he was alive. He gave us a good drenching with gas
shells which didn’t do much harm, and then messed up our forward zone
with his trench mortars. At 7.20 his men began to come on, first little
bunches with machine-guns and then the infantry in waves. It was clear
they were fresh troops, and we learned afterwards from prisoners that
they were Bavarians—6th or 7th, I forget which, but the division that
hung us up at Monchy. At the same time there was the sound of a
tremendous bombardment across the river. It looked as if the main
battle had swung from Albert and Montdidier to a direct push for
Amiens. I have often tried to write down the events of that day. I
tried it in my report to the Corps; I tried it in my own diary; I tried
it because Mary wanted it; but I have never been able to make any story
that hung together. Perhaps I was too tired for my mind to retain clear
impressions, though at the time I was not conscious of special fatigue.
More likely it is because the fight itself was so confused, for nothing
happened according to the books and the orderly soul of the Boche must
have been scarified.... At first it went as I expected. The outpost
line was pushed in, but the fire from the redoubts broke up the
advance, and enabled the line of resistance in the forward zone to give
a good account of itself. There was a check, and then another big wave,
assisted by a barrage from field-guns brought far forward. This time
the line of resistance gave at several points, and Lefroy flung in the
Americans in a counter-attack. That was a mighty performance. The
engineers, yelling like dervishes, went at it with the bayonet, and
those that preferred swung their rifles as clubs. It was terribly
costly fighting and all wrong, but it succeeded. They cleared the Boche
out of a ruined farm he had rushed, and a little wood, and
re-established our front. Blenkiron, who saw it all, for he went with
them and got the tip of an ear picked off by a machine-gun bullet,
hadn’t any words wherewith to speak of it. “And I once said those boys
looked puffy,” he moaned.
The next phase, which came about midday, was the tanks. I had never
seen the German variety, but had heard that it was speedier and heavier
than ours, but unwieldy. We did not see much of their speed, but we
found out all about their clumsiness. Had the things been properly
handled they should have gone through us like rotten wood. But the
whole outfit was bungled. It looked good enough country for the use of
them, but the men who made our position had had an eye to this
possibility. The great monsters, mounting a field-gun besides other
contrivances, wanted something like a highroad to be happy in. They
were useless over anything like difficult ground. The ones that came
down the main road got on well enough at the start, but Blenkiron very
sensibly had mined the highway, and we blew a hole like a diamond pit.
One lay helpless at the foot of it, and we took the crew prisoner;
another stuck its nose over and remained there till our field-guns got
the range and knocked it silly. As for the rest—there is a marshy
lagoon called the Patte d’Oie beside the farm of Gavrelle, which runs
all the way north to the river, though in most places it only seems
like a soft patch in the meadows. This the tanks had to cross to reach
our line, and they never made it. Most got bogged, and made pretty
targets for our gunners; one or two returned; and one the Americans,
creeping forward under cover of a little stream, blew up with a time
fuse.
By the middle of the afternoon I was feeling happier. I knew the big
attack was still to come, but I had my forward zone intact and I hoped
for the best. I remember I was talking to Wake, who had been going
between the two zones, when I got the first warning of a new and
unexpected peril. A dud shell plumped down a few yards from me.
“Those fools across the river are firing short and badly off the
straight,” I said.
Wake examined the shell. “No, it’s a German one,” he said.
Then came others, and there could be no mistake about the
direction—followed by a burst of machine-gun fire from the same
quarter. We ran in cover to a point from which we could see the north
bank of the river, and I got my glass on it. There was a lift of land
from behind which the fire was coming. We looked at each other, and the
same conviction stood in both faces. The Boche had pushed down the
northern bank, and we were no longer in line with our neighbours. The
enemy was in a situation to catch us with his fire on our flank and
left rear. We couldn’t retire to conform, for to retire meant giving up
our prepared position.
It was the last straw to all our anxieties, and for a moment I was at
the end of my wits. I turned to Wake, and his calm eyes pulled me
together.
“If they can’t retake that ground, we’re fairly carted,” I said.
“We are. Therefore they must retake it.”
“I must get on to Mitchinson.” But as I spoke I realised the futility
of a telephone message to a man who was pretty hard up against it
himself. Only an urgent appeal could effect anything.... I must go
myself.... No, that was impossible. I must send Lefroy.... But he
couldn’t be spared. And all my staff officers were up to their necks in
the battle. Besides, none of them knew the position as I knew it....
And how to get there? It was a long way round by the bridge at Loisy.
Suddenly I was aware of Wake’s voice. “You had better send me,” he was
saying. “There’s only one way—to swim the river a little lower down.”
“That’s too damnably dangerous. I won’t send any man to certain death.”
“But I volunteer,” he said. “That, I believe, is always allowed in
war.”
“But you’ll be killed before you can cross.”
“Send a man with me to watch. If I get over, you may be sure I’ll get
to General Mitchinson. If not, send somebody else by Loisy. There’s
desperate need for hurry, and you see yourself it’s the only way.”
The time was past for argument. I scribbled a line to Mitchinson as his
credentials. No more was needed, for Wake knew the position as well as
I did. I sent an orderly to accompany him to his starting-place on the
bank.
“Goodbye,” he said, as we shook hands. “You’ll see, I’ll come back all
right.” His face, I remember, looked singularly happy. Five minutes
later the Boche guns opened for the final attack.
I believe I kept a cool head; at least so Lefroy and the others
reported. They said I went about all afternoon grinning as if I liked
it, and that I never raised my voice once. (It’s rather a fault of mine
that I bellow in a scrap.) But I know I was feeling anything but calm,
for the problem was ghastly. It all depended on Wake and Mitchinson.
The flanking fire was so bad that I had to give up the left of the
forward zone, which caught it fairly, and retire the men there to the
battle-zone. The latter was better protected, for between it and the
river was a small wood and the bank rose into a bluff which sloped
inwards towards us. This withdrawal meant a switch, and a switch isn’t
a pretty thing when it has to be improvised in the middle of a battle.
The Boche had counted on that flanking fire. His plan was to break our
two wings—the old Boche plan which crops up in every fight. He left our
centre at first pretty well alone, and thrust along the river bank and