At the Fords
The fiercest fighting took place when the Germans tried to force a passage of the river at various points. As they came up the fords—every one of which was commanded by our artillery and bodies of picked French and British riflemen—they were galled terribly by the rifle fire, and we kept plugging them with shells as fast as we could. For a while it didn’t seem to be of any use, for as one man fell another stepped forward to take his place, but he only struggled on a few yards before falling in his turn before the hellish fire we poured on them. They had evidently made up their minds to get the pontoons into position regardless of cost in lives. The first party got theirs in position nicely, and then came rushing across like a swarm of bees rushing out of their hives to see what was wrong. A shell from a French battery hidden on our left dropped right on to them, and the thing went toppling into the river with its human load, being carried downstream under a heavy rifle and shell fire. The same thing went on the whole day, until we were sick of the sight, and mists of blood were floating before our eyes, and the cries of the drowning and dying men were always ringing in our ears. That was the daily programme as I saw it until I got hit and was sent home. Only at one point did they manage to cross the river, and then they had to face a bayonet charge from the Allies’ infantry, who rushed on them with rare joy and hurled them back into the river: A Driver of the Royal Artillery.