'Section, present—fire!'
Volley followed volley, and the machine-guns vomited bullets. The enemy's firing-line could be seen to falter; then the second line melted into it. On they came. Our volleys rang out more frequently, but did not stop the advance; the third line melted into the remnants of the first two. Over our heads shots were screaming and on all sides wounded men were groaning; but the others paid no attention: they heard nothing but
'Section, present—fire!'
The Japanese were now close. As a line began to waver, it was reinforced and carried forward by the next in rear, and so it went on, fresh lines after lines appearing as if there was no end to them. Their firing-line now began to crawl up the hill from all sides. Volleys gave way to 'independent'—crack, crack, crack all round, and the deafening rat-tat-tat of the machine-gun. Now the range was point-blank, the crew of our machine-gun were all down—but—the enemy were repulsed. While they gathered down below for a fresh effort, their guns poured a hail of high-explosive shell on to our trenches, and did their work so well that our trenches were thick with wounded. Their infantry rallied, and again came on in swarms. At noon, though we had only 40 men left out of 150, our men gallantly held their ground. The foe crawled up on all sides; they showed up on the ridge, and dashed in with the bayonet. One of them, mad with fanaticism, got on to the top, shouting: 'How are you, Russkys?'
'Good-bye, Japanese,' was the answer given, as a bayonet was driven through his body, and he was hurled—a flabby mass—over the edge. But now the hill was surrounded on all sides, and it was impossible to hold out much longer. Burnevitch sent for reinforcements, and the men, expecting that they would come every moment, held out for another hour. Notwithstanding their numbers, the enemy could not gain the hill. At last an order was received from Colonel Savitsky 'to retire' on to Height 113. The withdrawal was effected, and then the men worked right through the night to make cover, having during the day learnt the value of good bomb-proofs—if they would not give protection from high-explosive shells, they would at least save them from the splinters.
As soon as it began to get light the outpost line, which had been thrown out the evening before round Hill 113, was called in, and, in expectation of a repetition of the previous day's artillery slaughter, the men were told to take cover in the bomb-proofs. Those destroyed by yesterday's fire had been repaired during the night, for it was recognised that this Hill 113 was the key to the Suantsegan position. At 5 a.m. on the 27th the first shot was fired by a Japanese battery in action behind Inchenzy Station, and the second day's battle had begun. Thinking that we had abandoned the hill, the enemy's infantry advanced to take it, but being hurled back by volleys at close range, they retired to a distance and their guns got to work, and so the bombardment continued till 1 p.m., their gunboats assisting.
The battle for possession of these hills was severe, and the coolness of our men was remarkable. If any of them ran away or if any panic set in, it was the fault of the officers, for any officer whom the men respect and love in peace-time can rely on their steadiness in war. How many Russian officers know and care for their men? For some reason or other they rarely mix among them and know nothing of them or their habits, and bitter are the fruits they reap in war.
In two hours not a vestige of trench remained. The bomb-proofs had kept out the field-gun shells, but were useless against the high explosive. At last an order was received that the little force on Hill 113 was to retire, and taking their dead and wounded, they made their way back under a heavy shrapnel fire. So it went on—the enemy pressing—gradual retirements by us from hill to hill. At night, when the fighting ceased, we were holding the line of Hills 139, 127 and Upilazy. Star after star came out and twinkled in the darkening sky, looking down on the awful shambles, while General Stössel, intoxicated with the 'success' of the two-day battle, congratulated everyone, ordered the bands to play and the troops to cheer, and himself left Seven-mile Station for Arthur to rest.
At a council of war in the evening it was decided to accept battle on the third day. But not a single unit was sent up to the front, the condition of the line on the right on which the real weight of the fighting had fallen was not ascertained. There was no co-ordination as regards command. Each acted independently—Fock on his own account, Kondratenko on his. The only cohesion was expressed in Stössel's categorical order 'to hold on.' That all the 'big wigs' expected us to hold on next day is clear from the fact that when Stössel left after supper that night for Arthur, he made his favourite Savitsky promise to come into Arthur next day to celebrate his 'name's day.' With the departure of the Officer Commanding the District, the staff rested on its laurels and did not worry about arranging for a retirement. The officers commanding independent units and sections of the line had no idea what to do in the event of the unexpected happening, and as our line was spread out for twelve miles in hill country, the unexpected was, to be paradoxical, to be expected. The troops themselves never dreamed that the morning would see a retirement: they were full of confidence and, forgiving him his mistake at Kinchou, still believed in Fock.