We got a few body-shields for our scouts in our battalion, and they went out for a long time with a greater confidence. The protection they afforded gave them a calmer frame of mind, which produced extra efficiency. But we make more serious claims on this disputed ground by our 'raids,' which occur in many places every night. The raid is a survival, or perhaps a revival, of the old hand-to-hand fighting. It is a curious anti-climax of science in war, of which there are so many illustrations to-day.
In spite of long-range guns of great power and high-velocity telescopic rifles, we fight in trenches close together, and we have got back to grenadier days. Hand-grenades, rifle-grenades, and trench-mortar bombs as big as howitzer-shells are tossed over to the enemy lines at the same murderous distances as those at which Wellington's and Napoleon's veterans fired at each other in Peninsula days.
The raid is the last illustration of our backsliding in an age of science to the primaeval fighting instinct, unrelieved by the chivalry of a knightly age. You may be sure there are no banners flying or trumpets blowing, no heraldic challenge to warn the Hun that he is to be raided. It is a form of frightfulness calculated to jar the nerves of the most militant disciple of the gospel of blood and iron.
We were warned that our battalion, in common with others, would be expected to raid the enemy's lines in its turn, and volunteers were immediately called for. There was no lack of response. Then the men had to go through a long and careful training, as those do who are out to win a county football cup. In the rear of the sector they dug trenches which were a replica of those to be raided. They did this from photographs provided by our indomitable airmen. On this ground the men were trained physically, and in the use of the special arms they were to carry. Relay races to give them speed, crawling attacks at night to make them wary and acquaint them with the 'lie of the land'; and added to this, bayonet-fighting, revolver-practice, and all this again and again, and in all sorts of light or darkness, until at last they were smitten with a desire to 'get it through,' and a confidence that they could 'put it through.' So much so, that two of their number who became due for leave declined it, as they thought it was 'up to them' to be in the raid after training for it.
At last the great day arrived. No one knew until almost the last moment. When the raiders came up in two London motor-buses singing 'Australia will be There,' we did not know them at first. They were a disgrace to the battalion as far as clothing went, for they were clad in ragged and dirty clothes from which all marks of identification were absent. Short as the notice was, we had organized a 'banquet' for them, and even got a huge three-decker bride-cake from a neighbouring village. We had a solid meal of three courses, and you may be sure it was none the less hearty because of the absence of intoxicants. Every one was cheerful, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness and grim determination. The chaplain had to propose a toast, and after he had wished them 'Good luck' and 'God bless you,' the men came up with apparent casualness to say a word or two of intimate confidence not to be divulged in this sketch.
Then the men were prepared. They all wore aprons containing bombs; some had rifle and bayonet, some clubs, entrenching-tool handles with cog-wheels at the end—commonly called chloroform sticks—some bombs and revolvers. Every non-com. had a watch set to divisional time and an electric torch.
Amid a good deal of merriment they blackened each other's faces—not for fun, but because white faces would be easily revealed under the white light of the German flares. Then the motor-lorries came up to take them into the sector, and with many cheerful wishes they drove away as jolly as though they were going to a party. A motor-ambulance followed with the regimental doctor, the chaplain, and the stretcher-bearers. Down the long communication trenches we followed them silently over the duck-boards, from which occasionally some would slip partially into the water draining below.
The arrival at the front line is marked by a 'fading away' of the troops holding it. 'It's me for my dug-out,' I heard one man say. 'It ain't healthy with raiders about.' This is wise, because when the raid begins the Boches will rain shells on No Man's Land, and then put a barrage on or about the parapets to get them on the return. Now the raiders are sorted out and put round the three secret sally-ports through which each party will enter the 'verboten' land. The doctor inspects the special aid-posts to see if all arrangements are perfect. Yes, the bandages and doctor's kit are all laid out, and the A.M. Corps men at their posts, and I and the doc., with an A.M.C. sergeant, repair to the main aid-post to wait. It is three-quarters of an hour yet to zero time, but before that many of the raiders will be lying out in No Man's Land in holes and hollows. We try to read a bit, then talk, and all the time smoke. Smoking has a curious psychological effect. It steadies the nerves, makes you believe you are not perturbed, but there is no doubt that the time of waiting is always the worst.
Every now and again we look at the watches. 'Quarter of an hour to go.' 'Yes,' says the doc. 'I expect some of them have crawled out now.' 'Ten minutes to go.' You throw down your book. It is no good pretending to read. For three days our gunners have been 'wire-cutting.' They have cut the wire over a very wide front, but they always take care to cut it where our men are going to attack.
Zero time is 9 p.m., and exactly on the second hell breaks out. Guns in the rear roar out in fury. Trench mortars close at hand vomit forth their missiles of death, and even machine-guns and rifle batteries help to swell the crescendo of battle. The ranges are well known, and the guns do their work without harming our men, who are now crawling forward.