THE COUNTER-ATTACK.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVIII, Issue 245, 13 October 1917, Page 13

THE COUNTER-ATTACK.

WHEN THE HUNS COME OVER THE TOP. "Over the top" is a phrase that is now of household currency. It expresses in terse soldier-language one of the most nerve-racking experiences it is possible to undergo. But that "over-the-top" feeling is nothing compared with the slow agonies—the prolonged nervous strain—of an expected enemy counterattack. Before the attack is delivered the imaginative man undergoes moments of acute terror—terror not unlike that of a child cowering in darkness. He can feel the pounding of the enemy's barrage long before it crashes across the parapet. He suffers that sensation of paralysis so familiar in dreams. He stands riveted to the spot till the scorching bayonet, a grey ghost of his brain, is tearing through his flesh. . . And yet the same man with calm courage will unflinchingly expose himself and open rapid fire when the actuai attack begins. It is a curious point in psychology. I have faced several counter-attacks, and my sensations were precisely the same on each occasion, says Mr. Drysdale Smith in the "Daily Mail." There was first a waiting period of acute tension — of unconquerable nervous impotence and agony—whicli held mc in its jrrasp, then vanished utterly. It gave place to a quaint sensation of excited curiosity and detachment from the events that were happening. I recall the evening as if it were yesterday. The details are stereotyped on my brain. The sky was fleecy with white clouds. There "was nothing in the sun-baked stretch of the enemy's lines to indicate that he was massing with fixed bayonets, four deep in his front line. But suddenly his guns opened, and shells of all calibres rushed thorough the air towards us, bursting close at hand and covering us with earth, small stones, and sulphurous fumes. ADVANCING WAVES. For the next half-hour my eyes were glued to my periscope. I shail never forget that half-hour of vivid expectancy. I prayed for something to happen that would break the spell. My heart waa thudding in my throat. . . Should I be able to keep my leg_ firm when they came over? . . How would it feel when the bayonet was pushed into my body? . . . And, above all, what would happen if I lost the line?. ... What would the men say, and the captain and the colonel and the general? These were the thoughts that coursed through my excited brain. Then the first wave of the expected counter-attack scrambled over the enemy's parapet. A thread snapped in my brain. I rapped out a fire order. A movement rippled down our line. My men were manning the parapet. I dropped my periscope and stood up on the fire-step. I felt no sensation of fear; only a vast and consuming curiosity as to whether the Huns would reach our trench. The first wave advanced fully thirty yards before one of them dropped. A machine gun crackled its staccato rat-tat-tat-tat . . . rat-tat-tat. . rat-tat and several others picked Tip "the crisp chorus. The leading wave still ran towards us. But in their Centre a wide gap suddenly yawned. In this gap the gTound was strewn with figures; some of them squirmed and wriggled, others lay placid in death. . . The wave of men still rushed on. A second wave poured over the parapet of the enemy's trench. Then our own artillery burst forth. It was a stupendous salvo. It rumbled overhead like gigantic engines thundering through the air. In front of us the attackers wavered. The detonation of Domos sounded farther down the trencn. I turned my periscope sideways. Hun bodies were being flung over our parapet . . . My sergeant appeared. "Cleared 'em out with bombs, sir" he remarked. "Look, sir!" He pointed to our front. "Cease fire," I ordered. For the attackers had disappeared. What was left of them had retired. "That's the end, sir!" chuckled my sergeant. I thrust my hands into my 'breeches pockets. I did not want him to see they were trembling. . . .