“OVER THE TOP”

New Zealand Times, Volume XLII, Issue 9596, 28 February 1917, Page 11

“OVER THE TOP”

WAITING FOR THE ADVANCE

A STORY FROM THE TRENCHES (By AN OFFICER.)

The infantry will advance to the attack of tho First Objective at 1.30 p.m.—Ojjcration Orders.

S a.m.—Since dawn two lion-hearted servants, who came up five miles under shell fii’c during the night, have- been busy with mysterious rites in the bottom of tho trench.

It is quite a good trench, as trenches on the Somme go, about shoulder-deep, with long holes sooojjed at intervals in the sandy parapet (rather like the tombs of Christian martyrs in tho catacombs), where one may sleep, if one can. The trench is just the breadth of a man. To pass abmg it, crowded as it now is with men, requires the agility of tho jungle apo blended with the patience of Job. The previous occupants of the officer’s corner of the trench, who displayed such indecent joy on being relieved, last night, have scooped out a niche in the parapet to serve as a table. On this one of the servants deposits a teapot, a loaf, a plate of cold boiled bacon, a saucer of butter, and two tin cups, and announces breakfast. Wo stop studying the view. The trench is not deep enough to prevent one’s enjoying the landscape, a stretch of undulating pasture in front, then a reddish greyish tangle of wire running in front of a yellow scar gushed in tho grass Beyond it is a village wreathed in douse clouds of smoke. The noise—not to forget a detail—is earsplitting. That is why we all eat breakfast standing up. If you sit down the thud of the shells bursting in tho German lines rattles your ear-drums till your head aches. . We are only four officers with tho two companies that are going to lead tho attack, for wo are going in “under strength.” While we breakfast, my company commander and I pore over our maps spread out in the parapet of the trench. For the hundredth time we discuss the plans we have mj.de for keeping our direction as w© advance to each successive objective. We disagree violently as to whether we turn half left, on leaving tho trench, as he maintains, I. a quarter left, which is my opinion. 8.30 a.m. —We still breakfast. The subaltern of the other company, pointing at the landscape with a piece of bread and jam, says: “Doesn’t their wire look beastly P” 8.45 a.m—The sun comes out and floods the scene with light, even tingeing the shell-bursts with gold. Aou catch yourself looking at your watch. “Only a quarter to 9!” is what you say. What you are thinking is that in five hours, anyhow, this rotten waiting about will be over, one day or another. 9.30 a.m. —The other company commander retires to his Christian martyr’s tomb and reads tho “Field.” , His subaltern is still eating bread and jam. My company commander writes a note to the company sergeant-major. 1 watch two grey-coated Huns plodding stolidly along among the shell-bursts, carrying a plank. They disappear. , 10 a.m.—Three aeroplanes come 'out from over our lines. Rather more noise in consequence, “Archies,” machine-gun fire.

10.30 a.m.—German "H.E.” shrapnel, very black, very smelly, very noisy, very erratic. The other company commander leaves his hole and demands to know why the blazes we are kept loafing about like this all the morning; people always attack at dawn; why make a blessed matinee of it? 11 a.m. —Frantic demands down the trench for Sergeant Bradawl: "Pass the word down for Sergeant Bradawl.” One of the servants vouchsafes the information that the sergeant was killed last night. “On the water fatigue, sir,” he says. “I saw him dead myself.” More aeroplanes, more noise, more German shrapnel, most objectionable, but wide. 11.30 a.m.—Two hours more! My company commander and I agree we will stay where we are till 1 o’clock, then go along the trench to the right where the company is, see that the men can all get out of tho trench easily, and pick a good jumping-o£i place for ourselves.

Noon.—The servants produce a bottle of port. It betrays considerable signs of the agitation of the night. We partake of “port, wine and a biscuit” in approved style. Wine does not taste well out of a chipped enamel mug. especially port after it has been under shell fire.

12.15 mm.—We lunch off tongue, bread and sand. The port is by this time so thick that it fortunately veils the interesting mineral deposits in the bottom of the mug. I retire to the Christian martyr’s tomb and read several pages of tho “Field” without understanding them. 12.30 p.m.—One hour morel Great map and compass work by everybody. Much discussion about the final objective, somewhere beyond the smoke wreaths round tho village. My company commander produces a two-franc piece. “We’ll toss who goes over with the leading platoon,” he says. “Winner goes second.’ I win.

12.45 p.m.—My servant wearing the chastened yet hopeful air of a second in tho prize-ring divests me of my raincoat and cap and hauds_ me my helmet, then girds about my waist my belt with all the complicated paraphernalia of modern war—revolver, compass, fieldglasses, gas helmet. The other officers are similarly occupied. Conversation languishes.

12.55 p.m.—Our orderlies appear, mysteriously unbidden, at our sides, as is tho way of orderlies. We four officers compare watches. My company commander and I set off along the trench. 1 p.m.—The British soldier is as full of angles as he is in a Nevinson war picture. He and his equipment) stick out ail over the trench. We are squeezed, battered, and bruised as we force oui way along the trench foot by foot. The men are singularly quiet—the old ones phlegmatic, the young ones thoughtful. 3.10 p.m.—The din is awe-inspiring; the very air seems to tremble with noise. This must be the intensive bombardment. It makes tho nerves tingle with excitement. The men are waking up. Vou look at your watch and wonder how much longer you can bear the strain of waiting not for what may happen but to fight—to get at them. 1.20 p.m.—We find a good spot to get out from, right in the centre of the company. The men of the platoon (hat is to lead are standing in the niches they hare cut, readv to leave the trench at the sound of the whistle. 1.25 p.m.—Five minutes to go! We get our whistles out. My company commander gets up in our niche The noise is deafening. You have to shout to make yourself heard. 1.27 p.m.—"Three minutes more I make It!” bawls my company commander in my car. I nod, without lifting my eyes from my wrist. 1.28 p.m.—A man beside me points excitedly to the left. "They’re off!” ho yells. I see a stream of figures moving forward, ever so slowly, on the extreme left. It is a false start, but they keep on. 1.29 p.m. —We are still waiting. My company commander has one foot on the parapet. Ho turns round and grins at me.

1.30 p.m.—A whistle just above me, whistles all alone the line, men scrambling. stumbling on even- side. The first platoons are off. Lord ! What a row! 1.31 p.m.—How verv leisurely everybody seems to be moving forward! JTy nlatoon is tumbling out of the trench; I presume I blew my whistle. Smoko

and noise and figures swarming through the haze. My company commander waits for me as I corns no and roars in my ear: "Half left; you see I was right!” A man beside you exclaims, "Oh!" in pained astonishment, as it teems, and you see him at your feet with the blood gushing out of his head. Then you realise your are "over the top"’—and you never knew it.