A soldier’s life, while of some concern to himself, to an officer is but a means to an end. It is offered, or given, to get results. The best officer obtains the most results with the least loss. Some give wrong orders and sacrifice their men. Others seem to grasp every opening for advancement and gain the objective with very little loss.
In the first run to the outlet the slaughter was terrible. Stretcher bearers carried a continuous stream of wounded with bloody bandages on, silent, motionless, pale-faced, dirtily-clothed men, whose muddy shoes extended over the edge of the stretchers.
Nearer the front line, the worse the carnage. Dead were lying so thick soldiers walked on upturned faces grazed by hob-nailed shoes. Side trenches were filled with wounded, waiting transportation. Some, injured in the hand, held it up watching the blood flow; others, hurt in the leg, were dragging that member along. Holding onto their stomachs were those whose blood was running down over their shoes. At one corner leaning against two corpses lay a young soldier, smooth shaven, curly-hair, mustache trimmed, his face settling into the soft, creamy whiteness of death, a smile on his lips.
My mind flashed over to Madam Tussaud’s wax figure exhibition in London.
Two Moroccans stopped. One pulled off his vest and found a blackish red bruise on his chest. His comrade said: “It is nothing, come along.” The other fell over, dead. A Zouave, with back broken, or something, unable to get up, eyes rolling into his head, twisted his body in agony. The doctor, walking away, said: “No chance. Leave him; blood poison.”
The Germans had a sure range on the outlet. Wounded men, walking back in the trench, were jostled and knocked about by strong, running men, forcing themselves to the front. Shells were falling all around as we ran into “No-Man’s-Land.” Machine guns were out on the slope, “rat-tat-tat-tat,” a continuous noise. Men lying behind guns, rifle shooting, working, cursing, digging trenches, throwing dirt, making holes.
At every corner stood calm, square-faced, observing officers directing, demanding, compelling. What are such men in civil life. Why do we never see them?
In the open I stopped and took a quick look around. The only man I knew was Crotti, an Italian. He spoke in English: “Where is the Legion?” The officer overheard. His face changed. He did not like that alien tongue just then, but understood, and smiling, said: “The Legion is there.”
They were crawling up a shallow trench, newly made in open ground, at an angle of 45 degrees from us. We did not try to force our way back into the trench against that crowd, so kept out on top and joined our comrades, who laughed when they saw us running in from where the Boche was supposed to be.
The man alongside puts on his bayonet as the order is passed down the line to go over on command. The officers snap out: “Five minutes, three minutes, one minute, En Avant!” The Colonials, the Moroccans and the Legionnaires, all mixed up, arrive about the same time. Up, and over the Boche line trench. Where is the wire? It has been blown away by artillery. Instead of deep, open trenches, we find them covered over! Swarming we go up on top the covered trenches then turn and throw bombs in at the port-holes from which the Germans are shooting. Boches run out at the entrances, climb from the dugouts, hands in air, crying, “Kamarad.”