“The blow fell to the minute. The dug-out rocked. A sheet of flame lit up the sky. A thousand devils seemed to be forging a red-hot band on the earth as far as the eye could see. Their countless hammer-strokes were merged into one loud growling, rumbling noise. Gradually the ear became accustomed to the sound and detected the sharp crack of answering bullets
and the rattle of machine-gun fire. Dawn was breaking and eyes were strained to pierce the half-light. Minutes seemed like hours.
“The first messenger arrived at the nerve centre. He brought good news. Others followed. All reported success. The Intelligence Officer took out one of his pigeons, attached a message to its leg, and released it. He noticed how clumsy his handling of the bird had become. The pigeon circled once and flew straight as an arrow in the right direction. This was dramatic, exciting, the cream of war. Then came the sordid side.
“The enemy artillery awoke. Great shells came hurtling through the sky.
“The shelling grew less. The machine-gun fire died away. The enemy was accepting the new situation. We had won; he had lost. Both sides prepared to settle down where they found themselves, too tired to prolong the struggle.
“The Commanding Officer was satisfied with the position. Emerging cautiously from its shelter, the party moved back to the original Battalion Headquarters. As they passed the trenches and the scooped-out holes in which the supports sheltered, inquiries were made as to casualties, and brave words spoken to cheer the exhausted men. The Intelligence Officer, ruminating on death, saw many signs of it. The true value of the body in which for a short period resides the soul of man was brought home to him. Three men crouched in a trench. Two were cooking; some conversation was in progress. The third man sat by their side and took no part. He seemed by his attitude to be thinking deeply,
immersed in the solution of a problem. His face was turned away. The attitude was one of puzzled thought.
“The Intelligence Officer made inquiries as to how they had fared. Two of the men looked up; they gave him a friendly smile and told him all they knew. The other sat with his head bent, still studying that inscrutable problem. The Intelligence Officer noticed with a start the colour of his ears, how wax-like in appearance; then he knew in a flash—the man was dead. His comrades did not even explain the fact. They seemed to realise that the figure by their side no longer counted, that the soul and personality were fled, that there was nothing dreadful in the husk that sat there and still seemed one of them. War had taught them what a small thing the body really is, what a matter of indifference whether it is smashed or not. They had learned one thing at least—the proportionate value of the body and the soul.
“That night the 4th Battalion handed over its burden to some one else. It was due to be relieved. The Chaplain had arrived to see to it that the brave dead had decent burial. When it was possible, the Grenadiers always carried down their dead, so that in the future, grouped together, they would stand as a memorial of the cause they fought for, and indicate plainly to future generations how Grenadiers could fight and die—a monument to the power of discipline, self-sacrifice, and pride of race.”
No. 1 Company under Captain Sloane-Stanley, No. 3 under Lieutenant Nash, and No. 4 under Captain Paton, dug themselves in with entrenching tools along the Anneux chapel—Mœuvres road, while No. 2, under Captain Britten, was placed in Anneux chapel itself. The shelling was very violent, and all the roads, by which supplies and supports had to move, were accurately and persistently shelled. The Brigadier, Lord Henry Seymour, came along, quite unconcerned and not even wearing a helmet, to see how these companies were getting on, and told them they might have to move up later into Bourlon Wood. When it got dark snow began to fall, and it became bitterly cold. The position of a lent battalion is by no means an enviable one, and soon orders and counter-orders from different authorities succeeded each other with amazing rapidity. Finally definite orders were sent to the Battalion to take up a position in Bourlon Wood, and at the same time it was placed under the orders of the 186th Brigade. While this move was being carried out, Lieutenant Nash was wounded in the leg and sent back to the dressing-station. In order to keep in touch with the 186th Brigade, Second Lieutenant Tuckwell was sent to Graincourt to act as liaison-officer to General Bradford, V.C.