ULTRAMARINE had attained the objective.
It was then 6.42 P.M.
Curious, most curious, to see the strain pass momentarily from men’s faces. Two runners took the message down. It proved to be the earliest news received at H.Q. that the objective was reached.
But the bombardment did not cease, did not slacken. It developed more and more furiously. Niven, one of the very best—the boy was killed a few weeks after—lay with his body tucked close to the side of the trench. I lay with my head very close to his, so that we could talk. Major Ogilvie’s legs were curled up with mine. Every now and then he sent in a report.
My conversation with Niven was curious. “Have another cigarette?” “Thanks, Bertie.” “Fritz is real mad to-night.” “He’s got a reason!” “Thank the Lord it isn’t raining.” “Yes.” Pause. “Did you get any letters from home?” “Two.... Good thing they can’t see us now!” “Jolly good thing!” “Whee-ou, that was close!” “So’s that,” as a large lump of earth fell on his steel hat. Pause. “I must get a new pair of breeches.” “When?” “Oh, to go on leave with.” “So must I.” We relapsed into silence, and from sheer fatigue both of us fell asleep for twenty minutes.
I was awakened by Ogilvie, who kicked me gently. “I have had no report from Townley or Johnson for nearly two hours”—it was past eleven. “I want you to go up to the right and see if you can establish communication with them. Can you make it?” “I’ll try, sir.” Our guns had quieted down, but Fritz was still pounding as viciously as ever, and with more heavy stuff than hitherto. My experience in travelling perhaps a quarter of a mile of trench that night was the most awful that has befallen me in nearly two years of war at the Front.
The trench was almost empty, for the men had been put in advance of it, for the most part. In places it was higher than the level of the ground, where great shells had hurled parapet on parados, leaving a gaping crater on one side or the other. Fear, a real personal, loathly fear, ran at my side. Just as I reached the trench an eight-five exploded on the spot I had crossed a second before. The force of the explosion threw me on my face, and earth rained down on me. I knelt, crouching, by the parapet, my breath coming in long gasps. “Lord, have mercy on my soul.” I rushed a few yards madly, up, down, over; another pause, while the shells pounded the earth, and great splinters droned. I dared not move, and I dared not stay. Every shadow of the trenches loomed over me like the menacing memory of some past unforgettable misdeed. Looking down I saw a blood-stained bandage in a pool of blood at my side, and I could smell that indescribable, fœtid smell of blood, bandages, and death. As I went round a traverse, speeding like a hunted hare, I stumbled over a man. He groaned deeply as I fell on him. It was one of my best N.C.O.’s, mortally wounded. An eternity passed before I could find his water-bottle. His face was a yellow mask, his teeth chattered against the lip of the water-bottle, his lips were swollen and dreadful. He lay gasping. “Can I do anything for you, old man?” With a tremendous effort he raised his head a little, and opened wide his glazing eyes. “Write ... sir ... to my ... mother.” Then, his head on my arm, he died.
On, on, on, the sweat streaming from me, the fear of death at my heart. I prayed as I had never prayed before.
At last I found Johnson. He gave me his report, and that of Townley, whom he had seen a few moments before. I went back, another awful trip, but met Major Ogilvie half-way.
After nine and three-quarter hours, during which they threw all the ammunition they possessed at us, the German gunners “let up.” And Ogilvie and I went to sleep, along the trench, too weary to care what might happen next, to wake at dawn, stiff with cold, chilled to the bone, to face another day of “glorious war!”