The Boche made a determined effort to retain it and counter-attacked time and time again, but each try met our machine guns, rifles and grenades, together with the barrage, and a distorted heap of dead Kaiserites was added to those already in this ditch of death.
Their ranks were getting woefully thin and pale; wave after wave came up in a bull-headed effort to keep the line, and, finally, to assist the fainting Prussians, a regiment of Brandenburgers jumped to their help, and again they came. By this time the trench was literally filled with dead, dying and wounded men. Over the Brandenburgers came, one thousand strong, right in the teeth of our barrage; in mass formation they charged, and it was impossible for a bullet to miss its billet in that line. They fell like flies on a tanglefoot sheet, and back they wavered into the trench. But there was no shelter for them there, as it had ceased to be an abiding place, because their dead and wounded comrades were piled in it clear up to the brink, and there was no place for them to stoop or crouch to escape the rain of death.
Our O.C. paused awhile to see what Fritz would do further, but—nothing stirring! So, over our fellows went. The corpse-filled trench offering no attraction for shelter, the wave rolled on to the seventh line, taking it and putting up there for the night.
A few hours later Fritz made a most determined attack on the seventh line, and sorry am I to tell that they made a little headway, taking some prisoners, among them being my cousin Jim; roll call the following morning also disclosed Archie as missing. For my dear Auntie's sake it is my sincere prayer that he may yet be alive and well.
When the wave reached the first line in this drive, the trenches were filled with prisoners and orders were given to corral them in the different dugouts and rush them into the holes, but there was no need for hurrying them,—they were diving for them as fast as their legs would carry them. My brother Billy and a party was put in charge of a number of dugouts, Billy having one under his control. He did not know how many were in the dugout he guarded, but outside was a captured Prussian officer. The boys had now gone on ahead, leaving the prisoners' escorts posted here and there along the trench to guard them. This Prussian officer was standing a few feet away from Billy, on his right, and something diverting Bill's attention from him, the Prussian officer, in strict accordance with the Prussian code of honor, seized the opportunity, grabbed a rifle, and was about to plunge the bayonet into Billy, but he turned just in time to catch him in the act and avoid him. He lunged with his bayonet, catching the dastard in the left shoulder, and while tugging to get it out, the prisoners started rushing up the steps of the dugout, and Bill was forced to let go of the rifle; as he did so, the weight of the gun pulled the bayonet downward, ripping through the Prussian's black heart. Bill then took a bomb—he had eight of them—and let them go one after another into the dugout. Although fighting for his life, he knew if he faltered for a moment he would be lost, and he did not lose his head for a second; he realized that if he let any of these bombs leave his hand and reach the dugout in sufficient length of time before it exploded, they would seize them and hurl them back at him, or else escape this particular bunch who were trying to get him and who were strung on the steps leading down into the dugout. So, in the midst of the scrap he kept his nerve and his head, not letting a single bomb leave his hand until he was dead certain the time had expired and that the moment it struck the top step of the dugout, their mission of destruction would have been accomplished. This done, he yanked his rifle out of the officer's shoulder and jumped to the entrance of the pit for any others that might have escaped his fusillade of grenades. None came.
"Billy, take those prisoners out of the dugout," sang out the Sergeant-Major, "and get them to the rear, and tell the rest of the boys to do the same."
"I don't know how many are there, sir."
"I'll take a look and see," and the Sergeant-Major jumped into the dugout. In a moment he reappeared. "There are nine killed and three wounded. Round up these three and get them to the rear and get over the top as fast as you can."
Billy did so, catching up with his pals at the third line trench. When he got to the sixth line, a shell exploded in front of him, hitting him in the thigh and dislocating his hip bone, besides giving him a painful flesh wound. He was knocked unconscious and thrown into a shell hole. The hole was almost filled with water, but the horseshoe luck of the Grant family was with him; when he fell in his head was just out of the water.
There he lay for eight hours, when the moaning of a wounded pal, three or four feet away, roused him and he pulled himself over to him; his pal's leg had been shattered from the knee down and Billy, in spite of his own condition, managed to drag him for some distance toward the dressing station, hopping on his left foot as he went and then resting a bit. Finally the pain became too great and he could go no further; every nerve and fiber of his aching body was at the breaking point of utter exhaustion, and the pain of the gangrene in his wound, inspired by the mud and dirt, gave him his finishing touch and he dropped. Bill's pal then took up the struggle; he tottered to his sound foot and dragged him to the dressing station, where he dropped beside him.