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Regina dug-out. Mud and darkness. A heavy barrage. Fortunes of Headquarters. A painful relief. Martinsart Wood. At the end of October, 1916, the 61st Division left the XI Corps and commenced its march southwards to join the British forces on the Somme. We were among the last battalions to quit the old sector.
Here and there spouts and columns of earth and débris shot up in the sunlight. It seemed that every living thing must perish within the radius of that devastating hurricane of fire. At 7.30 exactly there was a short lull in the bombardment just long enough for the gunners everywhere to lengthen their range, and then the fire became a barrage.
He wondered, stupidly, if one of his bullets couldn't have gone down the muzzle of the tank's gun and exploded the shell in the chamber.... Oh, the hell with it! The tank might have been hit by a premature shot from the barrage which was raging against the far slope of the ridge. He reset his watch by guess and looked down the valley.
We went forward very nicely, under cover of a 'creeping barrage' which was represented by drums rumbling and flags waving. When he came up we all advanced to our final objective which was in advance of the Battalion's objective. We have to go to the outpost line.
"Manifestly this is no place for renewed protestations of brotherly regard, Tommy," she said demurely. "I presume we have to go through all the difficulties we did last night, Major?" "And quickly," muttered Major Henri Marchand, looking away from them. "There is something on foot. I should not be surprised if the promised attack and advance under barrage fire is to begin before morning."
By one of the sudden wind freaks so common in the story of the war, the gas-cloud was cleft in two by a swirling breeze, and it rolled dankly on, to right and left, leaving the central trenches clear. Now, an artillery barrage, accompanied or followed by a gas-demonstration, can mean but one thing: a general attack.
I watched mile-long lines of them shape and reshape into circles, into interlaced lozenges and pentagons then lift in great columns and shoot through the air in unimaginable barrage. Through all this incessant movement I sensed plainly purpose, knew that it was definite activity toward a definite end, caught the clear suggestion of drill, of maneuver.
A beautiful creeping barrage preceded us. Row after row of shells burst at just the right distance ahead, spewing gobs of smoke and flashes of flame, made thin by the bright sunlight. Half a dozen airplanes circled like dragonflies up there in the blue. There was a tank just ahead of me. I got behind it. And marched there. Slow! God, how slow!
They bounded right and left, tacked across it, turned, scrambled up, slipped back, tumbled, somersaulted, but always regained their balance and made steady headway. They seemed to have lost their wits, for they scattered, each selecting his own route, all striving with great exertion to make speed up the steep slope. A barrage of stones fell all about me. Dust-puffs dotted the slide.
While this was going on the British field guns came into play with a shrapnel barrage fire which completed the demolition of the entrapped enemy. It was little wonder that later 1,500 German dead could be counted, or that 400 guardsmen surrendered with upheld hands and emotional cries of "Kamerad!"
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