The Diggers: The Australians in France

by Patrick MacGill

On the night of August 29, when darkness fell the Australian engineers busied themselves throwing bridges across the Somme canal, south of Peronne, and some of these bridges, broken and battered, are to be seen there yet. Working hard in the gloom, despite the continuous rifle and machine gun fire of the enemy, the engineers completed their task, and in the morning of the 30th patrols essayed to cross the canal and advance through the marshes towards Peronne. No practicable path could be found across the swampy morass; the enemy kept up a stubborn resistance and the Diggers had to desist from attempting further headway at the moment.

Meanwhile, fighting was proceeding elsewhere, and at every point the Australians were making gradual headway towards the ancient town. In the forenoon of August 30 the Omiecourt peninsula east of the village of Clery had been cleared and a bridge head held by the Germans was taken. This opening a route to the town, it was decided to advance in this direction and lay siege to Mont St. Quentin, attacking it from the north and west instead of the south.

By three o'clock in the afternoon the Australians came into contact with the German advanced positions and fierce hand-to-hand fighting took place and continued far into the night. Every inch of the ground was disputed, every path, every gully and bank became the scene of desperate fighting. Brave men went forth to meet death calmly and proudly, doing their duty with the consciousness of Right to sustain them, enduring all the risks of the night with a grim fortitude and bearing all its discomforts as if they loved war solely for its own sake.

But it is too much to say that the men love war. No man of normal pattern loves war as it is fought here, hip deep in slush all through the day and night in an atmosphere suffocating and gaseous. If a man loves war, he is no more to be complimented on fighting than a man who loves a good dish is to be complimented on eating. But one thing is true. The Australians, certain of the cause for which they are fighting, are keen on keeping at it until a successful finish is reached, knowing that the German method of warfare, waged with all its attendant despotism and tyranny, has for its aim, not alone the breaking of the Allies, but the shattering of the moral frontier of civilization. The Australians are out, not so much to make war for its own sake as to wage it for something that is straight and clean. And never was this purpose made more manifest than at the taking of Mont St. Quentin.

In the early morning of August 31, the infantry from New South Wales, Victoria and Tasmania, got orders to attack. The men were then in the locality of Clery-sur-Somme, and by a strange coincidence rations came to hand just as the attack was about to start. The mail also arrived with letters and parcels from home, but war cannot stop for matters of such little import as the reading of letters and the filling of hungry stomachs. Leaving the hot steaming dixies of tea behind them and stuffing their letters in their pockets the Australians in the cold damp morning, unaided by tanks or barrage, set out to attack. Peronne was in flames, Mont St. Quentin was impregnable, the Germans were offering a stubborn resistance. But no faltering for the "Diggers" when they were "up against it"!

The day cleared as they swept out from Clery-sur-Somme and made their way across the level stretch of land that lies between that village and their objective, fighting all the road and clearing the enemy from the old Somme trenches which lined the way. And as they fought they could see a hillock in the distance standing blank and bald, and to all seeming, impregnable. This was the steep promontory of Mont St. Quentin, the summit of which the brave soldiers of the New South Wales Brigade had to take. And to-day it presented a most formidable appearance and inaccessible front. But the men knew no stay, they prepared their hearts for a sublime suicide. Letters as yet unread were taken from their pockets, torn to shreds and flung to the winds. Though confronted with an almost certain death they were not going to give any information to the enemy.

Wire entanglements unbroken by shell-fire blocked the way of the soldiers of New South Wales, but undaunted, they sought for openings and wormed their way through. Some took off their coats, their packs, lifted props and sandbags that lay by the way, threw these on the wires and clambered over. The promontory was stormed, the ready bayonet brought into play and the enemy was cleared off Mont St. Quentin. At this one swift assault they scooped in most of the whole German rearguard north of Peronne, and captured the great natural position overlooking the city and took 1,500 prisoners.

It was here that 250 Australians captured 800 Germans, big soldiers of the Prussian Guards. In addition to the men the colonel of the battalion was taken prisoner, an irate individual who was exceedingly annoyed because the Australians had dared to capture him or his men. Bristling with arrogance he blustered and swore at the Australian officer who questioned him. How dared the Australians, the common Australian soldier, order him about, prod him with a bayonet when he refused to move and catch him by the collar of his coat and shove him in front of them towards the cages in the back area. He was a colonel, a scion of a noble house, an aristocrat.

"If you don't behave yourself," said the officer, "I'll pass you on to the Diggers. At the present moment you're not with the slaves in Germany."

The Colonel blazed into another round of abuse, and the officer, losing his temper, handed the Colonel over to the Diggers, giving them orders to search the man.