Private Spud Tamson

by R. W. Campbell

"Things look bad," mused Colonel Corkleg, viewing the surging horde of yelling Bavarians, who were now advancing again. He knew he was in a tight hole; he was also aware that the eyes of his men were on him. That is the Tommie's way. In danger he looks to his officer. If the officer is still the same cool gentleman who has kindly but firmly guided him in the other affairs of peace and war—all's well. But—if there is a sense of despair, a touch of pallor, a command given out in a nervous way, then that wonderful confidence which wins all battles dies out in a flash. Corkleg knew the working of the soldier's mind. This was an occasion to preserve to the last the air of ease and the sense of hope. [pg 285] Between puffs of a cigarette he calmly issued his orders, directed the fire, and occasionally cursed a slacker who fiddled with his bolt.

"Thank Heaven for our Maxims," he remarked to the adjutant, as he watched Cocky Dan and his gunners sending death and disorder into the German ranks. Then jumping over the dead bodies of some of his gallant men, he entered a little dug-out where the telephone was. Turning the handle, he waited. A faint tinkle quickly echoed through the din.

"Hello—is that the brigadier?"

"Yes."

"We're in a tight fix here, sir. We've lost the first line of trenches. The regiments on my right and left have gone. It looks as if we're going to be scuppered."

"Hold on, for God's sake, colonel. Yours is the key of the whole line. They must not get it. We'll reinforce you soon. Good-bye."

"I hope to God you will," he muttered, dropping the 'phone. He was not afraid of slaughter, but he was certainly afraid of the enemy capturing this, the pivot of the defence. The colonel, of course, was not aware of the higher policy which had placed him [pg 286] there, for even commanding officers are seldom informed of the inner secrets of attack and defence. In this case the G.O.C. knew the strength of the enemy and fully estimated the deadly weight of their numbers. Brave as his men were, it was impossible for them to repel this great attack in its early stages. Nor would it have been wise to do so. He knew the enemy could break the line. It was, therefore, essential to work out his defence in such a way that he might avoid needless casualties, gain time, inflict a frightful slaughter, and then drive home the counter-attack—the soundest maxim of war. The point held by the Glesca Mileesha, however, could not even be temporarily surrendered. It was on a knoll commanding the flat country round. If captured by the enemy it would have been an easy matter for them to gallop forward their light field batteries under cover of this hill, and then render to the attacking German infantry a weighty co-operation which would have been fatal to the British general's plan. That was why this regiment was there, and the presence of this regiment gave their general the assurance that they would hold out while he attempted a venture thrust [pg 287] upon him by the will and numbers of the enemy. Colonel Corkleg, of course, may have divined this thought of the G.O.C., but he had not been informed of the fact. He had been given a definite order—"To hold out till the last," and in the British Army orders are always obeyed. The orders to the colonels of the regiments on his immediate right and left were to promptly retire when the enemy reached the first line of their trenches. On arriving at two little knolls covering the ground which they had surrendered, they were instructed to immediately reform behind them. There they would find sixteen Maxim guns and fresh troops to aid them. That was all they knew. But behind a great earthwork screen, some five hundred yards to the rear of this second line, the Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, and Gurkhas lay under cover, ready, if need be, to repulse a serious reverse, but really destined to carry out the counter-assault.

Now, imagine the scene. The Glesca Mileeshy fighting like Trojans against the helmeted hordes who tried to envelop and crush them. Their trenches were filled with blood, and hundreds lay maimed and dead. [pg 288] Round their flanks swept rank after rank of the Germans, in vigorous pursuit of the little sections of retiring regiments who fired a few rounds, then ran on to the next bit of cover, where they repeated the same performance with a coolness truly wonderful and inspiring. Their volleys were deadly enough, but feeble against such a mighty deluge of men. Still, they lured them on, then finally disappeared behind the flanks of their second line of defence. Meantime, the German reserves had arrived. Inspired by the success of their first lines, they pressed bravely forward to finish their job, leaving the Glesca Mileeshy almost encircled by their friends.

Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p spat the machine-gun batteries behind the little knolls. This was accompanied by a terrific explosion of land mines, which burst beneath the feet of the enemy, as well as the rapid fire of the infantry and the crashing bombs from five aeroplanes above. Hundreds were blown lifeless and mutilated into the air, hundreds more were riddled with the traversing fire of the Maxim guns, while many were caught with the well-aimed musketry of the eager Tommies. The great host reeled with [pg 289] the blow. Death and fumes, the smoke and noise, stupefied them all. They were like lost sheep in a wilderness. Indeed, the enemy had reached that mental state when a counter-attack will always win.

"Double forward the reserves, and, when ready, charge," was the order flashed from the G.O.C. of the Mixed Division. Out of the earth rose the Indians and Colonials—brothers in arms. Their advance was covered by the men and Maxims on the knolls in front of them. Gleefully they ran—Indians mixed with Canadians, New Zealanders, and Australians. They reached the second line of defence and lay down for a breath.