Casca 21: The Trench Soldier (6 page)

Casca woke next to Cockney Dave who stretched and declaimed, "The twenty-sixth dawned bright and clear – and noisy," as the first incoming shell exploded somewhere nearby. Major Cartwright was in the trench talking earnestly to junior officers. Casca saw that the subalterns' faces grew more and
more grim as the major spoke. Then there were whistles, bugle calls and George's bagpipes, and, in spite of the barrage, they were climbing over the top and racing for the German positions.

"Can't be any worse than sitting here waiting to get hit," Dave panted as they ran, and Casca agreed.

It was only half light, and they made it almost halfway to the German trenches before the defenders' machine guns started. Behind them their artillery barrage continued to fall around the now deserted trenches. They were almost through some of the wire before the surprised Germans realized what was happening. They were having breakfast, confident that the British were pinned down by their big guns, not expecting to go into action for another hour or so.

Casca found that this was the ideal application for the Mills bomb and regretted that he only had two. Lobbed into the confines of an enemy trench, the fragmenting grenade had tremendous effect, killing and wounding several men and thoroughly demoralizing many more.

The British suffered tremendous casualties, but they did get into the trenches, and after some desperately savage close combat, managed to force out some of the Germans.

As the sun came up the situation became more and more confused. Some trenches were securely in British hands, and parts of others were secured. German soldiers were milling about on the open ground behind the trenches without orders from their officers who were rushing from their breakfast in considerable confusion and absorbing numerous casualties as they came within view of the
Tommies in their trenches.

Almost half of the German force had been withdrawn to meet the threat from Smith-
Dorrien's forces at Le Cateau, and now, for the first time, the Germans found themselves on a surprised defensive and facing troops in somewhat near their own numbers.

Casca saw the officers come running in groups, and he raced toward them. Sergeant George saw him and rushed to follow at the head of a number of his men.

The German officers stopped and drew their Mausers, some of them fitting their wooden holsters to them to convert the pistol to a carbine. So used, with a twenty-round magazine, these were very effective weapons, but the Germans were surprised, confused, and caught it the open. The Tommies cut them down to a man then turned on the approaching sergeants and wreaked similar devastation.

The German Army valued initiative in its ordinary soldiers no more than the British, and all training strove to stifle it. Lacking orders, the infantrymen turned this way and that, firing desultorily and, when they came under concentrated fire from the trenches, taking to their heels.

Sergeant George called to his men to let them go, as the next trench was full of Germans too. But Tommies were pouring out of the first trench, wildly excited at the sight of fleeing Germans and intent on pursuit. George shrugged and abandoned his attempt at restraint and joined in the chase. The leaderless rabble of panic-stricken soldiers was easy meat for the pursuing Tommies firing into their backs. And as more and more men fell, the panic grew. They threw away their rifles and bayonets, ammunition clips, even their helmets – anything they could get rid of that might enable them to run faster.

The Germans waiting in the next trenches were doubly surprised. They were more or less at rest, held in reserve in case they should be needed to reinforce the attack that was not even due to start for another hour. The noise of the action had not startled or worried them. It sounded normal enough as accompaniment to the continuing artillery barrage. But they were mightily surprised to see hundreds of their comrades rushing toward them in wild disarray.

The retreating Germans slowed when they came to the wire, running up and down its length seeking the few gaps left open for the eventual move-up of reinforcements. The delay allowed the Tommies to get even closer, and their rifle fire became even more effective.

Many of the
Tommies had emptied their small magazines, and they fixed bayonets and charged the largely unarmed Germans, spearing them through the back or clubbing them over the head with their rifle butts.

From behind the wire the horrified reserve troops watched this butchering. Some turned and ran. Many reached for their unready rifles and strove to get them into action. There
was only a handful of officers and NCOs in the area, and their hasty and uncoordinated orders only added to the confusion.

Confusion turned to rout as the despairing wave of terrorized soldiers tumbled into the trenches, overrunning the defenders and spreading their panic to them. Then the
Tommies in the trenches, stabbing and clubbing at the dismayed soldiers while the reserve troops could not bring their weapons to bear for all of their comrades between them and the pursuers.

While many of the British had fixed their bayonets, just as many had paused to reload, and these now opened fire into the trenches from the earthworks.

Within minutes these trenches, too, were empty, the demoralized Germans fleeing wildly to the rear.

Sergeant George, Casca, and some other cool heads called on the Brits to restrain their pursuit. A number of subalterns who had been left behind in the speed and fury of the assault arrived and took charge. Runners were sent back to the main British lines. The captured German machine guns were turned around to face the rear for the inevitable counterattack. Medics arrived and began attending to the wounded.

Cockney Dave led a rush on the German cookhouse, and soon the Tommies were stuffing themselves with good black bread, sausage, and potatoes.

The expected counterattack didn't come. News of the rout of their previously victorious troops came to German HQ just after the news of a forceful and successful attack by General Smith-Dorrien's force at Le Cateau.

At the first news the German commander ordered the reserve contingent from Mons to Le
Cateau. His runners arrived at the reserve trenches just as some semblance of order was restored. Company commanders hastened to comply and readied their units to move out for Le Cateau. But before they could start, another runner arrived with orders that they should counterattack the Territorials who had put them to rout.

Then, before this move could be made, fresh orders arrived ordering that the troops stay where they were and wait for further orders. The German general had realized that there was grave danger that Smith-
Dorrien would fall upon the rear of the troops at Mons.

Major Cartwright, unaware of the success of Smith-
Dorrien at Le Cateau, made a similar mistake and did not press his advantage but waited for the counterattack that he felt must come quickly.

The two forces waited for the rest of the day only half a mile apart, neither making any attempt to attack the other. Meanwhile, at Le
Cateau, Smith-Dorrien's attacking force ran short of ammunition and was unable to gain more ground. The defenders regrouped, and there was another stalemate. But if Major Cartwright made a mistake in not attacking, he made no mistake behind his lines. He pressed into work every laborer and prisoner he could locate. By sunset all three lines of trenches were in good order: large wire entanglements were set up, machine guns were emplaced and well provided with ammunition and water, wounded were removed to the base hospital, and the troops fed and rested. The "contemptible little army" was ready for whatever the dawn might bring.

And what the morning brought was a truly massive artillery barrage followed by a determined infantry assault that cost many lives on both sides but failed to dislodge the
Tommies from their positions.

At Le
Cateau a similarly determined German offensive tore holes in Smith-Dorrien's lines but did not succeed in overrunning them.

The vicious fighting went on all day with scarcely a pause, and at sunset the positions of the two armies were much the same as they had been the previous evening.

The next day the Germans brought up fresh troops and succeeded in forcing the British back to the next line of trenchworks and that afternoon forced a farther retreat. The following day they forced a withdrawal to the next line and then to the next. And the next day to another that had been readied in the interim north of the Marne River.

The German attacks continued, each with more troops than the last, and the British and French were forced to continually retreat. The withdrawals were orderly, however, and more costly to the attackers than the retiring defenders.

A few days later, the French government did, in fact, abandon the capital and withdraw to Bordeaux, leaving Paris under the control of a military governor, General Gallieni. The Germans had now driven all French forces out of Lorraine and had taken Namur, Longuy, Montmedy, Soissons, Laon, Rheims, and Maubeuge.

On the Eastern Front, the Battle of
Tannenberg had resulted in a crushing defeat for the "Russian steamroller" that had been partly offset by the successful defense of Poland, inflicting even greater losses on the Austrian forces.

With German forces only fifteen miles from Paris, the military governor saw that the city was gravely threatened and urged General Joffre to mount a general counteroffensive. On September fifth, Joffre attempted to outflank the entrenched Germans, while they made a similar move against the well dug-in French troops and the shrinking British contingent.

The Battle of the Marne raged for five days with neither side able to gain any territory but with enormous casualties on both sides. The French army continued to pour more and more men into action. Eventually, on September ninth, both the army of General Kluck, the conqueror of Belgium, and that of General Bulow fell back; the whole German line withdrew west of Verdun.

Both the French and the British forces hesitated then advanced cautiously. The German line withdrew farther, and the allies made another wary advance. By September thirteenth, the Germans had been pushed back north of the Aisne River where they made a stand.

The allies stayed cautious. The German withdrawal had been orderly, and, it seemed likely, pre-planned. They had yielded perhaps five miles of territory but might now be better established in previously prepared defenses. These defenses would surely be hardened with every day that passed.

In the British lines the soldiers argued among themselves, mostly coming down on the side of action. No doubt the same discussions were going on at HQ, but coming down on the side of caution.

An artillery sergeant major appeared and several companies were paraded before him. He addressed them as if they were schoolboys, informing them of some of the intricacies of artillery operations, particularly the need for detailed knowledge of the location of the enemy and of his movements. He said that it had been realized that experienced infantrymen made better observers than artillerymen who rarely saw what they were firing at and so lacked the background for accurate recognition and reportage.

"We need a volunteer," he finally smiled, "for a light-duty job.
Nothing too much and right out of the firing line."

Even the rawest recruit could smell a trap. And there were no recruits in the Territorials so raw that they didn't know the first law of military survival-never
volunteer.

The sergeant went on, "No fighting involved – the volunteer won't even need to carry his rifle. And he'll get a two-day pass to Paris at the end of his duty."

"What's left of him," Cockney Dave muttered.

"Must be suicidal," Casca replied.

"A decoy duck," another soldier breathed. Not a man in the ranks moved.

"I'd go myself," the sergeant major said in a wheedling tone, and a grim chuckle swept the ranks as each man realized that the danger of being appointed volunteer was getting closer, "but I'm afraid of heights."

Heights? What was he talking about? Casca looked about at the war-blasted landscape of the Marne River Valley. Any heights would certainly be far from this war zone.

The sergeant's tone became more aggressive. "Well then, who's it to be?" he shouted cheerily, clapping his hands together and pacing along the length of the assembled men.

Not even Cockney Dave muttered a witticism. To so much as wiggle a toe might be taken as willingness to undertake the assignment.

"Why doesn't he just volunteer some poor bastard, like always?" Casca mused to himself.

"Come on now, who's for it? Nice ride in a balloon. See the whole ruddy war from a new angle."

A ride in a balloon?

German balloons were over the lines daily, and Casca and his comrades fired at them from time to time. But the large, seemingly stationary, targets proved almost impossible to hit. The balloon was, in fact, always moving. Imperceptibly it drifted from moment to moment toward any point of the compass, up or down, or closer or farther away. And the windage effects at the height of the balloon were quite different from what they were on the ground and impossible to allow for. Casca still tried for one when an opportunity presented itself if he had plenty of ammo to spare, but he no longer expected to succeed in downing one of the huge targets.

Now a ride in one might be something worthwhile. And he certainly had a great desire to see for himself just what was going on in the enemy lines.

He stepped forward smartly.

"Blimey," was
Cockey Dave's incredulous gasp. "You, a volunteer? 'ave you gone barmy?"

Within an hour Casca was standing beside a tethered balloon. An artillery captain climbed the ladder to the basket, and Casca followed. He was checking around inside the basket when the captain shouted, "Let go!"

Casca was knocked to the floor of the basket. His first attempt to rise was defeated by the rapid upward movement of the balloon, and he found himself sitting on the floor again. He tried once more, this time hauling himself erect on the side of the basket. He looked over the side.

And promptly wished he hadn't.

The ground was far away, so far away that Casca could scarcely believe it. The deep trenches, the high mounds of earth to their fronts, and the huge barbed-wire entanglements had all been flattened to one level; men inside the trenches disappeared into their shadow. Outside the trenches some tiny creatures moved about slowly and aimlessly like some stupid species of ant. From behind the lines of the trenches came puffs of gray smoke from artillery pieces that looked like children's toys.

Spread out below them was a featureless wasteland. Casca knew well enough that at close quarters no-man's-land was pitted with huge shell craters and strewn with abandoned rifles, steel helmets, packs, clothes, and here and there, arms, legs, a few heads,
some whole corpses. But from the serene height that the balloon had reached, there was nothing to be seen but a dun-colored expanse of empty land.

Ahead were the German trenches, as indistinct and irrelevant as the British, the same tiny, ant-like figures moving about in an absurd, unorganized, disconnected fashion. And, beyond the trenches, some more toy guns emitting puffs of smoke.

Now and then Casca saw a sort of eruption near or on top of one of the trenches and guessed that it was a British shell exploding. But these shells had only the slightest comic effect on the ants below. A few of them would fall down, a few others would move a little more quickly for a second or two, and then it seemed they would all revert to their previous pointless, slow activity.

"Did you ever see such a stupid, boring, bloody waste of time in your life?" the officer beside him muttered. Then a little louder, "Take those glasses and see if you can make any sense of it, eh, private?" Casca took up the binoculars. They helped somewhat. He could see that the tiny animals were indeed men, and looking over the captain's shoulder, he could now see that the shape of the river below them approximated the wriggly line on the captain's map. And some rather straighter lines, he realized, were roads. The captain was busily dotting the map with new information – trench and gun positions and troop concentrations. He pointed to the biggest curve in the river on his map.

"Can you find this place on the ground?" he asked.

That was easy enough even without the glasses. And when Casca brought the binoculars to bear on the spot, he saw great numbers of men moving about with field pieces and wagons.

"Looks like they're setting up a large artillery emplacement," he said.

"Yes.
Just as I thought." The captain's finger moved eastward away from the bow in the river. "And here, somewhere about here – what's going on there?"

Casca moved the glasses slowly, trying to approximate the line of the officer's finger. He saw a lot of men, many mules and wagons, and some large tents, a few of which were marked with red crosses.

"Looks like a field hospital," he finally answered.

"Oh, I thought it was more guns. Well, we'll leave them alone.
Bad enough for the poor blighters being wounded, eh, without being shelled in their beds. But it certainly is a big hospital – must be getting ready for a major push, eh?" He handed Casca a tightly rolled paper on which he had noted the coordinates of what they had observed. "Break out one of those pigeons, will you, and send her off with this info."

Casca reached through the spring door into the pigeons' cage and brought out a bird. Placing the paper in the clip on its leg, he threw it over the side. The bird fell like a stone, but after a little way
opened its wings and leveled out to sweep around in a wide circle. Then it headed for the British lines where it knew the bird handler was waiting with some tasty seeds, breadcrumbs, and affectionate pats.

The balloon was now squarely over the German lines, and Casca saw tiny puffs of smoke from the trenches as riflemen chanced their aim at the balloon. But he heard no gunshots or the whine of bullets passing anywhere near.

"Dumb krauts," the officer chuckled. "They don't realize we're moving all over the sky and even if they could get a good shot, the bullet's losing power every foot it climbs. By the time a round got up here, you could damn near catch it in your hand."

Casca had already caught all the hot lead he ever wished to and had no intention of trying this experiment. But he picked up his Lee Enfield and took careful aim at one of the tiny figures in an open area below. The man seemed to dance away out of the rifle sight, then back in a sort of irregular circle. Casca concentrated and managed to keep returning the tiny figure to the bead of the sight. When he squeezed the trigger he was gratified to see a tiny puff of dirt rise close to the German who turned and ran for the safety of a trench.

"Damn near got him, eh," the captain chuckled. "Curious, eh? We're so big and they're so small, but they make the better targets."

"If I had something like a Mills bomb," Casca answered, "and a way to aim it, I could hit a target down there."

"Yes," the officer pondered; "you're a pretty good marksman. Would you like to go lower and try a closer shot?"