But now it was the enemy's turn—the turn of his guns, which poured explosive fire into those pits, churning up the earth again, mixing it with new flesh and blood, and carving up his own dead; and it was the turn of his bombers, who followed this fire in strong assaults upon the Lancashire lads, who, lying among their killed and wounded, had to repel those fierce attacks.
On May 17th I went to see General Doran of the 25th Division, an optimistic old gentleman who took a bright view of things, and Colonel Crosby, who was acting—brigadier of the 74th Brigade, which had made the attack. He, too, was enthusiastic about the situation, though his brigade had suffered eight hundred casualties in a month of routine warfare.
In my simple way I asked him a direct question:
“Do you think your men can hold on to the craters, sir?”
Colonel Crosby stared at me sternly.
“Certainly. The position cannot be retaken overground. We hold it strongly.”
As he spoke an orderly came into his billet (a small farmhouse), saluted, and handed him a pink slip, which was a telephone message. I watched him read it, and saw the sudden pallor of his face, and noticed how the room shook with the constant reverberation of distant gun-fire. A big bombardment was in progress over Vimy way.
“Excuse me,” said the colonel; “things seem to be happening. I must go at once.”
He went through the window, leaping the sill, and a look of bad tidings went with him.
His men had been blown out of the craters.