Chapter 15

THE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD

NEW OPERATION ORDERS. "AT ANY COST." LIKE RATS IN A TRAP

I had hardly closed my eyes when a runner from headquarters came hurrying along the line, and was directed to where I was dozing at the bottom of a trench.

"Message from the C.O., sir, very urgent."

I signed the receipt and tore the envelope open. Good heavens! new operation orders! I was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to believe my eyes. Sure enough, there was no mistake about it, three pages of closely written operation orders. The head-line seemed to be mocking me:

"Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued this morning."

I read on: "You are to advance on through Leuze Wood, and attack from that part of the wood which forms the fourth side of the square-shaped trench, thus attacking the inside of the square; B Company taking the lower half, and C Company the upper half; A Company to be in support."

A cold shiver ran down my back. What a calamity! and after all the pains I had taken to work out the details of the attack, and that dreadful night spent in digging these trenches to jump off from. Every man knew what to do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan was altered.

I glanced again at the new orders:

"You are to be at the new place of assembly by 3.30 P.M.; zero hour is 4.45."

I looked at my watch--Great Scott! it was already 2.15; at 3 P.M. I must commence the advance through the wood.

The men had not yet commenced their dinners. What time was there? and how was it possible to sit down quietly and digest those three pages of new orders and understand their meaning? What time had I to make new plans and explain to each man his new task?

There was not a moment to be lost; I turned to my two runners:

"Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon commanders wanted at the double."

I waited, and by and by the platoon commanders, Second Lieutenant Farman and Chislehirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came running along the top, snipers shooting at them as they ran along. They halted on the parados, saluting as they came up, and, still standing up, awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the excellent target which they presented.

"Lie down flat," I ordered.

They did as I directed, their faces turned anxiously toward me, wondering what was up.

"New operation orders just arrived from headquarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to advance through the wood and attack from the inside of the square."

I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over to them, and they listened silently.

"Go back to your platoons. The men are to be dressed in battle order by 2.50--it's now 2.30--by 3 P.M. the platoons are to be closed up along the trench, and the leading platoon will enter the wood in single file, other platoons following."

As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; they were listening intently, but uttering no sound. They were receiving orders; they realised their responsibility, and they knew their duty.

The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly read it and looked up at them again:

"Just one more thing," I said. "These are my orders underlined:

"YOU MUST REACH YOUR OBJECTIVE AT ANY COST. IF DRIVEN BACK, YOU ARE TO MAKE A STAND AT THE EDGE OF THE WOOD, AND HOLD OUT TILL THE LAST MAN FALLS."

It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of the hour of trial which we were to face. Only those who have received such orders on the field of battle can realise what it feels like.

In those few dramatic moments we counted our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate was our task. Success we might hope for; but failure we must pay the price of. We must fight till the last man falls--and yet we were merely civilian soldiers.

I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I understood; I could trust them; they could trust me.

"That's all; return to your platoons and prepare to move."

They had not uttered a word through all this; no words were necessary. They jumped to their feet; saluted as though we were back on Salisbury Plain, and the next moment ran along the parados to their platoons.

I watched them, and saw them kneel down on the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers' bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly explaining the situation to their men.

By 3 P.M. the men were ready and had closed along the trench to the wood.

The movement had been seen by the enemy, and a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, at the time I could not see what effect it was having.

I waited several minutes, but there was no further movement along the trench to indicate that the first platoon had entered the wood. I sent forward the message, "Carry on," but still no movement resulted.

At last, feeling something was wrong and unable to restrain my impatience any longer, I jumped out of the trench and ran along the parados.

What I saw there appalled me for the moment; the wood in front of me was filled with bursting shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be moving backward and forward, and bullets were whistling in all directions.

Good God! what a hell! No wonder the men hesitated! What was to be done? My orders left me no alternative. I must advance through the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, "At any cost!" What a cost it would be to enter that hell! It was now, or never!

We were hesitating; something must be done, and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I knew I could count on him.

The next moment I leaped into a newly made shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he came jumping after.

The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top of our voices for the next man to follow.

The next man to take the leap was the company sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, clutching at his tunic.

Again we yelled for the men to come along; and one by one they took the leap.

When six of us were in the shell-hole it was time for us to empty it to make room for others. Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, and this process went on through the wood, leaping from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our lungs for the others to follow us.

By this time the scene inside the wood was indescribable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying backward and forward; 6-inch shells were exploding in all directions; and the din was intensified by the crashing of trees uprooted by the explosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking the ground.

Through the dull light of that filthy wood we frequently cast an anxious glance towards the red rockets being sent up from the German lines, directing the fire of their artillery towards us.

Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a German soldier who had fallen a week before. It was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies sucking at his open wounds would swarm about us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our disturbance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we must go.

By this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the absence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too significant.

But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came for another effort.

Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:

"I don't think it really matters. There's a hole about thirty yards away; I think I'll go straight for that."

He got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death which seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a moment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.

I shouted at him:

"Don't be a damned fool; jump!"

The next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. He was safe!

Again and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of horrors, kept beckoning me forward, "AT ANY COST! AT ANY COST!"

Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die in a wood.

The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They were brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers.

Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.

They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a solicitor's clerk.

Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.

Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are damned proud of it.

And what is taking place in England to-day?

Is it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London--while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is it really true that women in England are dressing more extravagantly than ever? Is it really true that some men in England are unable or unwilling to share the nation's peril--are even threatening to strike?

No! No! Do not let us think that this is the true picture of England. If it is, then, Territorials, let us die in Leuze Wood!