Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image
Article image

MICHAEL’S DAY

THE LAST GERMAN OFFENSIVE After twelve years most recollections are faded. Yet there must be thousands of men, British and German, alive to-day whose memories ol March 21, 1918, remain as vivid a.. .heir impressions of what yesterday (.wrote Alexander Scott, i, the. “Sydney Morning Herald o - March 21). For Michael s Day, as the Germans called the date cho.cn fm the opening of their great oifensiye, was no ordinary attack. It is no>v, a mitted by military historians to have been the most formidable concern ti ation of force that the world has ever seen. Coming events cast their shadows over the Jocks early in December J)l7, when our division found itsen astride the Bapaume-Cambrai road, m front of the much-talked-of Hindenoerg line. If the Jocks had any doubt chat trouble was brewing, they yeie „oon disillusioned by the tasks they were set, digging new trenches of unheard of size and extent, filling thousands of sandbags, making machinegun emplacements, and using so much jarbed wire that for the first time on record the R.E. park was “sold out” ol chat commodity. During January whispers of an impending attack began to come up with the rations from that home of rumour, the quartermaster’s stores. In February, it was no longer a question of "where?” but only of “when”? Early in March air-photo-graphs of the German lines became dotted with curious mounds, which from their appearance were known as “lice.” Our C.R.A. organised a shoot, and found that every time a "louse” was hit it exploded. They were, in fact, dumps of ammunition. Lines of white posts, presumably marking the routes for assembly of troops, also appeared in increasing numbers. The signs -were unmistakable, even without the almost daily reports that endless streams of German divisions were crossing to the west from the Russian front.

I have sometimes wondered if sufficient credit has ever been given the private soldier for the way he stuck it out during these early months of 1918. He knew an attack of unprecedented violence was coming; not being a fool, he also knew that wherever the blow fell the chances of coming out of the advanced posts alive were extremely small. Yet he "went about his tasks, in and out of the lines, if not exactly with cheerfulness, at least with that sardonic humour peculiar to our race. All the same, the constant .cry of “Wolf, wolf!” was without doubt trying to the nerves, and when at last the storm broke on the morning of March 21, it is no exaggeration to say that among the Jocks there was almost a feeling of relief; no mistake about it, this was the big fight at last. The night of March 20 ha dbeen very quiet, almost without shelling, but at 5 o’clock in the morning a violent barrage came down, which, as someone said, with more truth than he knew, extended from the front line to Paris. Behind us, such places as Bapaume, Albert, Doullens, and even St. Pol, were shelled by long-range guns. R.T.O.’s, whose haughty air and immaculate leggings had, in the past, prompted the cynical foot-soldier returning from leave to ask, “Is there still a war on?” received emphatic proof that the answer was in the affirmative. For miles behind the front line hardly a single railhead or dump escaped attention. On the Jocks’ sector it was a peculiar barrage: very heavy in spots, but picking out every battery position, battalion, and brigade headquarters with uncanny certainty. In a quarter of an hour practically, all signal communication in the division had been destroyed. For four hours the bombardment went on. To the “fog of war” was added a natural smoke screen of incalculable value to the attackers, a heavy ground mist as dense as a Scotch “haar.” It was a great piece of luck for the Germans, though they must be given credit for making the most of it. Our carefullyplaced machine guns in the front line were rendered almost useless, because the teams could not see 20 yards in front. There was hardly a breath of wind, and fumes from the gas shells hung about in a disconcerting way. Had the attackers been British it may be said with safety that the infantry would have been ordered to advance at dawn; the German infantry did not ■appear till nearly 10 o’clock in the forenoon. The first authentic news that the Jocks had of the enemy came from an artillery subaltern, who had run a line forward to an observation post. He reported that Germans could be seen between the front and support lines. A few minutes later he said his O.P. was surrounded, and that he was being bombed. After that, silence.

AN AWFUL HAMMERING. The enemy plan was simple. Having destroyed communication and made the movement of reserves almost impossible, he blasted his way through selected points by sheer weight of metal, poured troops into the gaps, and attacked each successive line of trenches in enfilade. What the bombardment was like may be judged from the fact that in the sector held by the 6th Black Watch, from the front and support lines not a single man survived. In. another battalion, out of three companies only 28 men were left. Yet the losses of the Jocks and the rest of the Third Army were not so severe as the awful hammering the Fifth Army had Io withstand further south.

I began this article by stating that memories of Michael’s Day remain distinct. That is true; but the mental picture of the following five days is like a composite photograph, the final result being simply a blurr of weariness, in mind and body. Only isolated and incongruous incidents stand out clearly. I remember, for example, talking to a man who was standing in the doorway of a ruined house. His conversation stopped in the middle of a sentence; he had fallen asleep standing on his feet. The C.O. of one battalion dozed in a chair, with a lighted cigarette between his fingers, and burned them to the bone before the pain woke him. Bui. in war. as in peace, the lino between tragedy and comedy is very thin. To this day 1 cannnt help smiling when I think f some weary Jocks, retiring through Bapaume, finding the Expeditionary Force canteen there, standing open and inviting, the official guardians having very wisely made off in the direction of Amiens. These battered warriors did their best to prevent (he stores falling into the hands of the enemy. I fancy that even the most hardened A.P.M. would have turned a blind eyo on. the proceedings. Heaven knows it was a day when the Jocks deserved all the loot they could got

This article text was automatically generated and may include errors. View the full page to see article in its original form.
Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/GEST19300329.2.64

Bibliographic details

Greymouth Evening Star, 29 March 1930, Page 9

Word Count
1,127

MICHAEL’S DAY Greymouth Evening Star, 29 March 1930, Page 9

MICHAEL’S DAY Greymouth Evening Star, 29 March 1930, Page 9