A WAR MEMORY

Southland Times, Issue 22131, 27 September 1933, Page 13

A WAR MEMORY

CAPTURE OF GIRD TRENCH. SOMME, SEPTEMBER 27, 1916.

(By

Green Dump.)

Where are the boys of the old Brigade, Where are the lads we knew? During the night we were relieved of the position we had captured two days previously, and by morning we were crowded into a deep straight trench, waiting to go forward to the attack on Gird trench. It was a glorious autumn morning, but the brightness found no reflection in our haggard, grey-faced crowd. German shelling kept up well down in the trench, and as the day wore on the monotonous inactivity, with thoughts of the impending advance, jangled our nerves. We were all bunched together, sullen and quiet, a great depression seeming to weigh on us all. Everyone seemed to feel quite definitely that we were going to be badly smacked up, though we had no strong reasons to think so. Twice the time of attack was altered before the final time of 2.15 p.m. was fixed. This postponing intolerably tortured our frayed nerves. About 1 p.m. bread and cheese Was handed along the trench, but was scarcely eaten, so depressed was everyone. Perhaps it was the cumulative nerve strain of the past twelve days’ fighting we had passed through without rest; perhaps some occult presentiment of death, for almost all these men were that day doomed to die. Two chaps next me were conning passages in a pocket Bible. Others nearby, weary, hardened Gallipoli warriors propped themselves against the trench and neither spoke nor stirred; faces haggard and drawn. An officer came through the trench giving final instructions. Gilbert Kerr, next to me, remarked, “It will lie-in out on guard to-day, sir.” “We have to get there first,” was the laconic reply. Two p.m.; German shelling suddenly increases and our over-taut nerves give way in violent tremblings, everyone being affected. This is awful. Two fifteen: A whistle sounds. What relief. Action at last! Slowly we move out of the trench, spread to two paces apart, and lie down till the line is formed. A whistle sounds and we start leisurely forward, rifles with fixed bayonets slung loosely on one shoulder. Simultaneously our artillery rips the heavens open with a terrific barrage; close over our heads whine, scream and roar shells of all calibres, the ground jumping from the shuddering roar of the guns behind. Before us the earth suddenly erupts skywards in awesome columns of dirt, smoke and flame. I glance along our line. How orderly everyone is advancing. This is going to be a walk over after all. Up my spirits go and already I feel the exultation of having Germans run or cringe before our bayonets as they had done at Flers and Goose Alley. Slowly we gain the top of the slope, but cannot see Gird Trench for the upheaval of fire and earth from our barrage. Our barrage lifts: immediately comes the terrifying phiz-zeep, phizzeep of machine-gun bullets. Ruffles of clover dance on the ground as the bullets chop through it. Gilbert Kerr on my right suddenly fails face down. Andy Simpson runs to him. An officer a few paces from me spins and falls. Two men on my left go down together. I glance behind to our supporting Bth Southland wave. Major Rice is striding boldly ahead of his men, but as I look he spins sideways and goes down in a heap. My face muscles twitch; little pictures run through my mind; Major Rice in his office in Wyndham. Major Rice proudly manfully leading us in a territorial parade through Wyndham streets; taking instructions from him on the beautiful Mimihau rifle range; now a crumpled heap among trench clover. Andy Simpson passes me on the run to regain his place in the line and calls, “Gilbert’s done, through the heart I think.” A shell explodes in our line and our S.M. and two others disappear completely. Another is on all fours bumping his head on the ground. Bert Wyatt staggers against me saying, “I’m hit.” I support him to a depression, rip his equipment off, lay him on his back, and draw his knees up. Brave soldier, face ashen grey; but never a whimper. I run to get back into line. Line? Oh, God, what’s happened to it? Andy Simpson cries “Wow” slews round and goes down. Billy Clark jumps in the air, drops his rifle and goes clawing at his side into a shell hole. Panic gets me. My throat and mouth are dry and sore. Every particle of my being cries out to turn and run, to run and run, away from this mutilation and death. I must go on. I must go on. Gird Trench: but the wire is intact and behind it Germans are shoulders above trench firing point blank into us. Three men on my left rush a gap and go down in a heap. A German lobs a bomb on to them as they squirm on the ground. I turn to the right and run. Lord help me, run! I join two others who are rushing a gap; we bring our bayonets to the charge and hurtle through. Germans jump off the firestep as we leap down. They rush into the next bay and a cobber lobs a Mills bomb into it. We follow with the bayonet. Other New Zealanders are jumping in. Panic gets the Germans. Rifles are thrown down; equipment torn off; they jostle with each other madly as they rush along the trench. We shoot them down through the back. Some scramble out of the trench and rush madly away over the open. Hysterical with emotion we push through the trench, bombing dugouts, taking prisoners. Gird Trench is ours!