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Updated: June 2, 2025
This was a hard blow right at the start, and it spelled disaster. Everything started to go wrong. Mr. Blofeld was in command, and another officer thought that he was in charge. We got conflicting orders, and there was one grand mix-up. Eventually we advanced and went straight up over the ridge. We walked slap-bang into perfectly directed fire.
Blofeld told me this was what was left of the village of Abalaine, which had been demolished some time before when the French held the sector. At this point guides came out and met us to conduct us to the trenches. The order went down the line to fall in, single file, keeping touch, no smoking and no talking, and I supposed we were about to enter a communication trench. But no.
This was the first raid that "Batt" had ever tried, and the staff was anxious to have it a success. There were fifty in the party, and Blofeld, who had organized the raid, beat our instructions into us until we knew them by heart.
Blofeld, who was one of those rare characters who can be personally close and sympathetic and at the same time command respect and implicit obedience, I never knew a successful officer who did not seem to be almost of another world. Our Colonel was a fine man, but he was as dignified as a Supreme Court Judge. Incidentally he was as just.
I could plainly see four or five faces looking up with surprised expressions. Blofeld chucked in two or three Millses and away we went. A little farther along we came to the entrance of a mine shaft, a kind of incline running toward our lines. Blofeld went in it a little way and flashed his light. He thought it was about forty yards long.
Blofeld got the military cross for the night's work, and several of the enlisted men got the D.C.M. Altogether it was a successful raid. The best part of it was getting back. After the strafing we had given Fritz on the raid, he behaved himself reasonably well for quite a while.
All about pubs and bar-maids and the things they'd eat and drink, and all of it Blighty. They were in the midst of a discussion of what part of the body was most desirable to part with for a permanent Blighty wound when a young officer pushed aside the burlap and wedged in. He was a lieutenant and was in command of our platoon. His name was Blofeld. Blofeld was most democratic.
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