B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (46 page)

A man near by groans and rolls over. A yard or so away an officer lies quiet as though sleeping. I see a friend writhe and twist. I hear a man scream. A sergeant, rising from the ground, staggers forward, shot in the back! I hear sobbing. No stretcher bearers here. Vaguely, as in a dream, I am conscious of flashes and rumblings overhead and regular crashes and slams to our rear. Where’s
our
artillery? Where are the guns? Bring up the guns? O God!

The barrel of my rifle blisters my fingers; then the bolt sticks fast, fouled with grit. I tear and swear at it, and my hand goes stiff with cramp. The reeking breech sickens me.

Now I become aware that the gun ahead is silent, and motionless the men beside it: one on his back with his eyes open, his hand outstretched as though beckoning; the other, his head on his arm. I look at the thing in a daze. It is getting lighter. A clammy sweat breaks out on me. I am a Lewis gunner! Turning my head, I gaze at the ridge. My hand shakes as I grip my rifle and take aim; but the bolt is jammed, the trigger limp. I lie there panting… ‘You’re a coward – a dirty, crawling coward! That one gun…that one gun might stop those…curs!’

A stone, struck by a bullet, jumps from the ground and hits me on the knuckle. It stings me to terrible anger. Next to me, Tom Rolls gives a yell as blood spurts from his wrist and splashes me in the face. I spring to my feet and race to the gun, heaving aside a corpse to get to it. I lie down to the gun, between the two dead men, and…I feel fine!

But the magazine will not rotate. I strain and strain at it. The cocking-handle is stuck fast. I squeeze, the trigger. I change the magazine. I talk to it, swear at it, do impossible things to it. Then, glancing down the barrel casing to the sights, I see that the muzzle is frayed and torn and broken, and the gas-regulator blown clean away. The gun is as dead as the men beside it.

At this moment the colonel appears. His face is black and sweaty; his shirt is torn to ribbons. ‘Don’t lie here!’ he roars. ‘Come on!… With me!’

We scramble to our feet and follow him down a long, rocky slope in the half-light, but heavy fire breaks out anew. We cannot stand it, and are forced into the dust again. Ripping out the bolt of my rifle, I lick it clean, spitting out the grit. It is hot and scorches my tongue. Now a worse enemy attacks. Shells scream about us, exploding overhead, on the ground, everywhere; they tear up the dust; they cover us with stones; the air is a hell of whizzing shrapnel. I see Harman with his back ripped open. We bite into the earth. Our mouths are full of muck. Not so Borton. He’s on his feet (has he yet been off his feet?); he crouches, his neck thrust outward. His grey-blue eyes are searching, searching…

‘Ah, good!’ he cries, and, tossing away his cane, pulls out his revolver. ‘Now I have them! Follow me!’

I go staggering after him down the slope. Had every man been shot he would have gone alone. Dimly ahead I see a hedge of stunted cactus swathed in smoke from which come flashes – white, knife-like flashes. Then I see figures moving, and, pausing, fire from my hip.

‘Don’t stand there like a palsied idiot!’ shouts the colonel. ‘Come on!’

I go on. Something warm is coursing down my face and trickles into my eyes, half-blinding me. I stumble on – my head is bursting…

‘Camarade! Camarade!’ Men in grey-coloured uniforms and ‘pork-pie’ caps are coming forward, their arms above their heads.

‘Austrians!’ The colonel’s voice is hoarse and husky. He rams his revolver into a man’s ear.

Beyond – across the open – men run for their lives; and I, breathless, land up against the smoking nozzle of an artillery field gun, the point of my bayonet stuck into the tunic-button of a burly Austrian bombardier; while the colonel, with a man or two, strives desperately – but without success – to get another gunner to turn his gun and fire on his fleeing comrades.

Daybreak! I stand panting before my prisoner; a breath from whose smoke-blackened mouth could bowl me over. He towers above me, smiling. I am trembling.

‘Mercy, Johnny,’ says he quietly, dropping a sooty hand and holding it out to me. ‘You brave feller. You haf face all bloody! Have mercy!’

He smiles. He looks a decent sort. His glasses and ginger hair remind me of Baker. Scrounger Baker! Rob! It is touch and go with the Austrian. Blood for blood! He smiles.
Camarade!
I cannot kill him…

Next to me on my right, little Sid Avery has a similar problem confronting him, and quickly he solves it, as well as mine:

‘Cigarettes…or yer life!’ puffs Sid.

Private William G. Johnson joined London Rifle Brigade, November 1915. Age twenty-three. Volunteered for transfer to 60th (London) Division for active service. Sent to 2nd Battalion 22nd London Regt. (‘Queen’s’) June 1916. July 1916, France. Five months in trenches. January 1917, Salonika. Three months in mountains on Doiran front, and three months on Vardar Front. Took part in operations against Bulgars. July 1917, Palestine. Took part in operations against Turks, resulting in capture of Gaza and Beersheeba, the wells at Tell-el-Sheria, Nebi Samwil, etc. At the capture of Jerusalem, December 9th, 1917. Also in engagements around Jericho, crossing of the Jordan, and the attacks across the Jordan Valley and Moab Mountains on Es Salt and Amman in the Hedjaz country in an attempt to link up with Lawrence of Arabia. Took part in forced marches across Palestine to sea above Jaffa, which ended in final rout of Turks on September 19th, 1918, at Tul Keram, towards Damascus
.

The camp at Sheikh Saad in March 1916 was bearable. The soil had not been powdered by the feet of the multitudes who later passed through it. The desert beyond was clothed with a rich verdure, which in the early morning was drenched with dew. The Tigris flowed past in flood, for the snow was melting on the distant mountain peaks. We strengthened its bonds as we had improved the roads on Lemnos previously.

We learned something of the position before Kut-el-Amara, where Townshend was beleaguered, though not much, conjecture and rumour filling the gap. We learned of the Turkish position at Um-el-Hannah – the gateway of the corridor to Rut.

One night we set out for an unknown destination. The day had been hot, but just before dusk there came a thunderstorm, and the rain was torrential. Very soon we realized that the going was unusual. On the granite-like subsoil was a thin layer of mud, and our feet would not stick in it. Soon men and mules were floundering in a sea of slime. Darkness closed in on a scene unparalleled, and the flickering lightning added to its weirdness. Towards the Euphrates the horizon glowed like the front of Mars. Through the long night we struggled and scrambled over the nullahs, blaspheming and cursing; until the sun rose, disclosing a mob of exasperated and exhausted men, reeling through the morass towards the camp at Orah.

Later in the day we crossed the Tigris, and evening saw us drawing near to the ominous mounds of earth at Um-el-Hannah. For the first time we heard the scream of shrapnel in that country, and to many of us it was our baptism of fire.

The trivial details of our life in the trenches are now almost lost to the memory, but the night of April 4th looms conspicuously. There was a dug-out open to the sky. In the centre the dying embers of a fire glowed feebly. The night was bitterly cold, and we huddled near it for warmth, for we were clad in drill and without greatcoats. Through the opening to the dug-out could be seen others of our company sitting on the fire-step of the trench. Their faces were grimly apprehensive, for the Turks were peppering the sandbags with machine-gun and rifle-fire. The sand was trickling down from the parapet, and over the dug-out poured a continual stream of whistling bullets.

There was a man of my own town near by, young Brandreth, and we discussed the morn and its chances. There was also a man with unusually bright and piercing eyes and gypsy-like countenance. He sat apart and was very quiet. I was smoking a cigarette. The tense atmosphere must have got on his nerves, for he turned towards me and said, ‘Can you spare a cigarette, corporal?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Here you are, Jaspar. I’m nearly stumped, but you can have one.’ Our talk ceased and drowsiness overcame us. I must have slept. I was awakened by a hand gripping my shoulder and the voice of the platoon commander saying, ‘Here, corporal, a couple of hard-boiled eggs for breakfast; put them in your haversack.’ Hard-boiled eggs. How funny! I held out my hands, and felt the contact of cold metal and the familiar knobs of the hand-grenade. I came back to reality with a start. ‘And waken us,’ he continued, ‘at three o’clock, please.’ The night grew colder, and we watched the glittering galaxy of stars move overhead, and waited for the hour.

At dawn the company, filed into another trench, and we cut notches for our feet, for it had no fire-step. Our guns were bombarding the front heavily. In the opening of a fire-trench near-by a white-faced, scared-looking boy leaned against the parados with blood streaming down his face. He had done his bit; ours was to come.

The height of the trench was well above my head, and the soil loose, but the friendly hand of a more nimble comrade helped me to a view of the war in microcosm, for the front here was narrow, not above 2,000 yards at a guess, with the Tigris on the left and the marsh on the right.

Right in front was a mound, and the shells were bursting about it, and the clouds of dun and white smoke were interspersed with vivid flashes, like a volcano in eruption, both beautiful and terrible. On the mound was a man gesticulating wildly, signalling the gunners to cease fire. The Turks had fled and our men were in the shambles intended for them.

Leaping the criss-cross of trenches we soon found ourselves on undisturbed soil, on which were strewn the bodies of our own people. They lay very quiet and very still, and took no notice of our passing.

On we went, now the vanguard of the little army which broke the barrier at Um-el-Hannah. We formed column of route and pursued the vanishing Turk down the long corridor to Kut-el-Amara. Falahiyah was now the objective. Shell-fire and the crack of rifles compelled us to open out, one of our company dropped. Very soon the gleaming earthworks were visible. We advanced over the level field by sectional rushes. Brandreth and I had a canvas water bucket containing bombs. Its presence was abominable. We speculated fearfully on the result that might follow a broken pin. On one occasion we rested rather longer than usual. Jaspar was second on my right. A boy lay between us. Without raising his head, he turned his face towards me, and observed that Jaspar was asleep. ‘Asleep?’ I replied incredulously. ‘For God’s sake waken him!’ The boy stretched his arm to waken him, but turned again quickly. ‘Corporal,’ he said falteringly, ‘Jaspar’s dead; his neck’s bleeding.’

Soon we were well within range of the Turkish guns, and the whole battalion in alignment. The order came to make cover with our entrenching tools, a grievous task lying prone under a broiling sun. Mason, a wiry little fellow from a cotton town, was on my left, with Brandreth between. Mason, when his task was accomplished, settled down to rest and observation. Over-curious, he raised a shoulder above the level of his little parapet, a rifle crashed, and with a groan he subsided. Brandreth had the task of giving first aid. It was accomplished without further mishap. Mason was very restless and breathing heavily. He turned, exposing himself once more, another crack and another groan, and he lay very quiet. On my right was a tall strong youth who used his cutting tool to great advantage. An excellent parapet was the result and an oblong cavity sufficiently long and deep to shelter his whole body. As the sun rose to its zenith we became hot and weary. The tall youth lay on his back and fell asleep. It must have been his habit when sleeping to draw his knees up. I had to caution him about it. Unobserved by us, he must have slept again. A crack from a rifle and the tall youth collapsed with a bullet through both knees. So the long weary day passed, until dusk came and the order to evacuate the wounded. Later we followed, crossing the new trench dug under our protection, leaving Falahiyah and the Turks to other and fresher troops.

We returned to Um-el-Hannah, and going there we were once more caught in a deluge of rain. How the wounded fared is unthinkable. Eventually we reached the place of bivouac, and stood about drenched and cold waiting for the dawn. Great was our relief when the camp fires gleamed in the early morning mists, and loud were the acclamations and shouts of joy when o’er the eastern hills the sun arose and ushered in bright day.

April 5th and 9th, 1916, stood out in our battalion annals. So I can safely say that the eve of the 9th saw us tramping down the corridor once more. This time to Sanna-i-yat, Falahiyah in the meantime having fallen into our hands. Once again the night was overcast. So thick was the gloom that the nearest objects were hidden from us. The path was fairly good and well-trodden. At one point we seemed to run close to the Tigris bond, and it was here that we passed a stack of discarded rifles with bayonets attached. The platoon commander slipped from the ranks and took one from the stack. A stern reminder of coming events.

What other troops were making for the rendezvous and what already there I could not say. Of Sanna-i-yat defences we knew nothing. Eventually we found ourselves drawn up in line. In front was impenetrable darkness; no stir, no rap-tap-tap from a machine gun; no crack from a sniper’s rifle.

We were told to lie down. Of the distance between us and the Turkish trench we had no knowledge. The herbage was wet with dew, and while I lay there shivering I thought of Magersfontein, for I was as old as Brandreth, who lay by my side, when news of the Black Week came through from South Africa. And now we were up against troops adept in the use of small arms and trench defence, many of them veterans of the Balkan wars.

At last the agony of suspense was over. A rippling movement from the left and we were standing, a similar movement and we were moving forward. The silence was now broken by the swishing of many feet through the herbage, by the rustle of clothes, and the clicking of bayonet scabbards. We were uncomfortably crowded. Brandreth and I had decided to remain together if possible. The order came to incline to the left. The men on our right were soon in difficulties. Possibly some trench or nullah interfered with their formation. There was a tendency to run, and then to buckle. Shortly we had a phalanx instead of a line.