THE SOMME.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIX, Issue 82, 6 April 1918, Page 13

THE SOMME.

' 1 A REMINISCENCE OF 1916.!. — ! ! HOW THE ANZAtSS ADVANCED. j ] fTTTF, TRAGEDY OF "NO MAN'S LAND." ' : (By A RE-TURNED SOLDIER.) "Albert captured." As I read the head- , line, in my mind's eye I saw once more the quaint little Picardy town, with its narrow cobbled streets, its queer little shops, its ancient church. I caw again the old church tower, .with its Madonna and Child poised in mid-air, leaning head down, as though in the act of diving into the crowded street below. I thought of the rumour, now almost a legend, which says that those same figures shall remain in that position till just before the end of the war —an occurrence which will be foretold by their crashing to the carth — and I wondered whether they are even now lying in the ruins of that street, mingling with the general destruction caused by the sheii-nre the town must have suffered. Another picture comes into one's mind; indeed, several others are conjured up. One sees again two hills, between which xuns a long winding road. Stretching across the hills are two lines of broken trenches, between them a strip of land averaging about three hundred and fifty yardsin width. The one line stretches around the crest of the further hill, and behind it lies a village—a village consisting of a few broken walls, a broken church tower, and a large-sized house, which is more or less intact. It is the village of Fricourt—at least so the Tommies tell us. They know the ground ■well, and they tell of that immortal attack when, on Ist July, 1916, the British set out to capture that "impregnable" line of trenches. They tell of the memorable game of football with which the attack started. They tell of the horrified astonishment of the Huns when they found that men were actually advancing to the attack of that position, and advancing with a football in the lead. They tell of the terrific hand to hand struggle in the trenches, of the costly but successful attack on the village itself. They tell of the sixty thousand men who fell "by the wayside—sixty thousand comTades" killed or .wounded. As they tell these things we New Zealanders listen, marvelling not at the cost of the attacks, but at the fact that these positions were ever captured. Had they been held by British troops they would never have fallen. As we listen to the story there is a continuous booming, which forms a grand orchestral accompaniment to the epic which the Tommies are reciting. NOISE OF WAR. It is night time. We are still on the same hill, but now we are stretched out with our water-sheets around us. A heavydrizzle is falling, making everything wet and cold. The night is pitch dark, but almost continuously flashes of flame light up great circles of the surrounding country, while here and there tiny spark 6 flicker and flash with that particular regularity that is peculiar to the Morse lamp. All around is the noise of war. Up and down that road pass continuous streams of traffic, horses neigh, mules shriek as a large shell from the enemy's distant guns land close to the transport lines. Every now and again comes the voice of somebody issuin. a short, sharp order, or perhaps one hears the noise of aeroplanes returnin. from a night prowl. Intermingled with, and yet quite distinct from j all these noises, is that peculiar to the sleepless, watchful artillery. Starting with a low rumble in some distant place, and becoming louder and louder as it creeps closer, and closer, until at last it pass_s close to one with a deafening roar, and again fades away into the distance, only to return. This continuous noise goes* on throughout the night, and does not cease at the break of day^ Another picture presents itself, and perhaps it is the most vivid, just because it is the most personal. Again it is night time, or rather early morning. A number of men are packed into a trench. They are sitting or lying on the bottom of it. Some are sleeping, not the quiet peaceful sleep of those who have nothing to fear, but the restless, broken sleep of men who have something on their minds, of men who realise that soon they must be up and doing, and are trying to catch the last possible wink of sleep." Others are talking quietly amongst themselves, laughing and joking in a manner which shows their nerves are strung to a high pitch. Others, again, stare moodily at the starlit sky, and shiver as the chilly wind catche3 them in its cold embrace. Overhead there is a continuous singing noise as of lar.e birds on the wing. Up from behind comes the rumble of the artillery. Every now and again an officer passes alon. the trench, stepping carefully so as not to disturb the sleepers. OVER THE TOP. As the first flickering light of day makes its appearance -on the eastern horizon, the word is passed along to get ready and have breakfast. The singing noise has ceased, and the artillery is perfectly quiet. The sleepers are roused. The men eat a hurried meal. Most of them are sparing, and content themselves with a biscuit and a mouthful of water. They are carrying 48 hours' rations, but they don't know when they will get any more, so it behoves them to be careful. A young subaltern comes along and speaks to them. He is their platoon officer, and won his commission on the field a few weeks ago. He has only been with these men a few days, but has already gained their confidence. He speaks to a man who carries a square board, and tells him to keep near himself, whatever happens. This man is the company signaller, who has been attached to the platoon for the duration of the attack, Having assured himself that everybody is ready, tbe young officer takes up his position, lights his pipe and pulls out his watch. Boom! a big gun in rear opens its iron throat, and lets out a deep-toned bark. It is the signal for a regular carnival of sound to commence. The whole orchestra of the artillery breaks forth into the prelude of the battle, the sharp treble voices of the 18-pounders, the tenors of the 4.65, and the 5.9's mingle in awful harmony, with the deep base tones of the heavier guns further back, the whole torrent of sound sweeping up from behind with a force which is both deafening and stunning. The curtain is about to rise on one of the great dramas of the war. The young, officer jumps on to the parapet and stands there. His men are to go over with the second wave. He sees five or six grey figures running towards the G«____n line, then numbers of khaki clad

men jump from the trench and walk swiftly in the same direction. It is the first wave going over. They are soon i lost in the dark, smoking mist caused 1 by our tremendous barrage. He looks at his watch and shouts to the men in the trench to get Teady. They cannot hear the sound above the hellish din from behind, but they know from his movements what he means, and when, a minute later, he closes his watch, and waves his arm, they scramble smartly over the parapet, spread out, and commence to walk swiftly forward. They have not gone far when they meet other men coming back. These are covered with blood and cheerful. Most of them have flesh wounds in the arm or leg. They know that their part in the great offensive is over. The attackers go forward. THE HARVEST OF DEATH. Soon they reach a ditch. It is nothing more than that now. but a short time ago it was a bettor, far more comfortable trench than the one they have left. Now it is just a ditch filled with mcn — or portions of men. There are dead men, dying men, wounded men, and live, whole men digging for dear life. On the other side of this ditch is a gentle rise. The brown line of men sweeps up this slope and qpaches the crest almost unbroken. There they meet the enemy's defensive barrage and come into direct range of his machine-guns. Here the H.E.s plought the tortured ground, the shrapnel pours down in a storm of lead, and the myriads of machine-gun bullets spit up the earth or sink into a softer bed of human flesh. Men fall all round. Sonic, throwing up their arms in helpless surrender to Death himself, fall prone upon the ground, others already stricken down and marked out by the dread Monarch, writhe and squirm in mortal agony, while others again, more fortunate, ibut severely wounded, crawl for the nearest shelter. The ground i» 6tained with blood, streams of it ru_ from the helpless bodies that lie around and from the wounded in the uhellholei who are trying to staunch their wound: with the field dressings that all must carry. At last the line of men, now numbering about half as many as when it i started out, lies in shell holes about 30 yards from the German trench awaiting the word to charge. It come.. The whole line jumps up and rushes forward. A crowd of grey figures jumps from the opposing trench and rushes with hands up raised to meet the attackers. Every miserable creature in that crowd is shrieking for mercy. When the trench is "cleaned up" the new occupants turn their attention to digging in. Another and yet another wave of the attack sweeps past them, bent on reaching further objectives. Still the shells come thumping down, thr shrapnel still rains down in a shower of lead, the machine-gun bullets still come whistling through the air. The harvest of death grows larger and larger, but in spite of this, victory is ours. THIS HOUR OF CRISIS. Again it is early morning, a week Inter. The whole countryside is shrouded in the early autumn mist with which Xature hides the awful things that lie around. A small party of men leaves the trench, each one carrying a shovel or a pick. The - strike out over the parados and make for the ground which they covered in the attack a week before. Some of them carry small wooden crosses. They walk for a short distance, then they stop by. a very still bundle of clothes. The N.C.O. in charge of the narty gives an order to two men who stay behind while the others go forward. The two who stay behind quickly dig a I grave, about three feet deep. Then they I search the 'body, take off the identity disc which is hung round the neck, and the pay-book and all valuables from the pockets. They carefully and reverently raise the body and place it in the grave. ! This done they stand for a moment bare ; headed and silent, then carefully but , quickly cover their dead comrade with ; his blanket of earth. Then one of them . picks up a wooden cross, and taking an ; indelible pencil from his pocket writes on it the inscription: "Sacred to the j memory of . N.Z.E.F.." and places it -at the head of the grave. They then pick up their tools and go in search of the N.C.0., to whom they hand over the disc, pay-book, and valuables, and who in his turn will hand these things into Battalion headquarters. The party continues its sad -work until the mist commences to rise, when they return to their trench. Amongst those whom they bury is the young officer. These are just a few of the many pictures that rise before one's mind'seye. They represent incidents which took place daily during the first great battle of the Somme. Then, at a great cost, we took that land from the invader. We wrested i.t from him inch by inch, yard by yard. Now he has taken it all back. Geographically and politically that district belongs to France, but do not let us forget that it belongs to us as well. It belongs to us by the right of Wood. There are men in New Zealand to-day whose blood has dyed the soil of the Somme, whose limbs lie buried there. There are women and children in New Zealand to-day to whom a lonely grave near far off Flers represents all that is left of some dear one. They call to us, these dead, over whose graves the enemy is even now hurrying forward his artillery, his transport, and his troops; they call to us not to be downhearted in this hour of crisis, but to be up and doing to brace ourselves to greater effort than we have ever made before; to smite the enemy again and again until he is so beaten, so exhausted, that he will never again he able to menace mankind. They call to us not to let their sacrifice be in vain. If we honour our dead we must answer that call. ■ 0- N - Hospital Annexe, Auckland, March 29, 1918.