by Barry Sadler
The big German Casca had picked out seemed to sense his challenge. He flicked his bayonet from its sheath and notched it to his rifle.
"Bad mistake, Heine," Casca grunted. "You could have used that second to crank a round into the breech."
The German rushed toward him. Rushed as had a hundred-thousand Germans in two thousand years. The blond giant ran confidently, sure of his cause, sure of his own prowess. His wide, blue eyes gleamed in his pink, smooth-cheeked face.
He made a long thrust for Casca's gut, but Casca swept it aside. The German grunted in surprise as his Mauser met the Lee Enfield's swinging weight, but he recovered swiftly and parried Casca's counterstroke.
For a moment the two stood chest-to-chest, separated by their rifles as they struggled to break through each other's guard.
"Jesus, but this bugger's strong," Casca cursed as he realized that the bigger man had the advantage. Using his extra height for leverage, he was pushing Casca's guard lower and lower.
"This isn't working," Casca thought. "Gotta do something else."
He looked into the German's eyes; they were almost smiling in their triumph. Suddenly the eyes widened and something like fear showed in them. He stared into Casca's eyes as if trying to read something in them.
Casca slackened his resistance against the German's rifle and allowed him to beat down his guard. The move caught the German by surprise, and his face still looked puzzled as the butt of Casca's rifle smashed into his jaw. The Mauser dropped from his hands as Casca's bayonet ripped deep into his gut.
"Too bloody deep," Casca cursed as he felt the bayonet jam, the dying German dragging it with him as he fell to the ground. He stamped his boot down into the soldier's guts as he jerked the rifle back up, and grunted in relief as it came free.
The German gazed up at him, his intestines spilling out of his torn abdomen. His lower jaw hung smashed from its hinges.
But it was his eyes that held Casca. Still they stared into his. The ruined jaw trembled as he tried to speak. His eyes shouted a wordless question.
Blood bubbled from his mouth, and in the gurgle Casca thought he heard: "What are you?"
He jerked his head away from the questioning eyes just in time.
A rifle shot exploded beside his ear, and he turned to see the man who had fired point-blank for his head. The astonished German was working the bolt action of his rifle for another shot as Casca straightened, bringing his bayonet up with all the power of his legs under it.
The blade sliced into the gray uniform just above the belt and penetrated upward into the chest. One of the great arteries was severed, and Casca was covered in the great gouts of blood that spurted forth.
The Eternal Mercenary wrestled the blade free as the German fell and turned to face the next man.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The battle raged till the sun went down, and only darkness saved the British from annihilation.
Once the battle was joined, the Germans had been unable to use their artillery and had depended upon successive waves of infantry, attacks to dislodge the Tommies from their hastily dug defenses.
From the ridge where the German big guns were now set up, the ground ran in a long slope toward the river, and down into some dead ground. So that after crossing this space, the attacking German infantry then had to toil up another short, steep incline before they came to the top of the next slope, the downside of which ended at the river.
The British five-inch guns and machine guns were able to prevent the Germans from securing this second ridge, so that they could not bring their heavy weapons to bear on the Tommies.
Casca expected the worst for the morning. Surely the Germans would suspend their unsuccessful infantry charges and begin at dawn to saturate the British lines with shell fire.
But well before dawn Major Blandings had the troops roused and moved up the first, short slope toward the German lines. They dug in on the peak of the ridge, which gave them command of the short, steep slope, the dead ground, and the lower part of the long, downhill grade from the German lines.
As always ammunition was in short supply, but some 8mm belts had been scrounged from the French, and most of the men had more than the regulation issue of twenty-five rounds. Best of all, the five-inch guns had been resupplied.
As Casca had expected, dawn brought an intensive barrage onto the now empty British trenches. The Tommies crouched in their tiny foxholes on the ridge and made no attempt to move. Their four machine guns stayed silent, and the five inchers made no attempt to answer the German bombardment.
"Some sensible tactics at last," Casca said.
"Aye," answered Lieutenant George, "but only because Blandings hasn't any orders, so he can work sensibly on his own. And he can see the shape of the ground.
"If HQ knew we were skulking here, they'd order us up that slope and right into the Jerry guns."
Casca laughed, "Well, there's no way they can know for a while. We're too far from base for an aeronaut observation team to get here – a tether line that long would pull down the balloon."
"Aye," George chuckled, "and it's the same for the Jerries. And, anyway, the wind is in the wrong direction for them. They can't get a balloon anywhere near here."
For this very reason, the German commander was unaware of the complex nature of the ground close to the river, and he again sent his infantry forward.
The artillery barrage ceased, and a long line of gray uniforms appeared on the farther slope. As soon as they commenced to advance, the British five-inch guns opened fire, blasting the entire hillside. There were so many Germans that every high explosive shell that hit the slope caused some casualties. Sometimes a number of shells would explode more or less together creating the impression of a large number of guns, and the German advance would falter, or even retreat.
The machine gunners on the ridge held their fire until the first of the German infantry was on the opposite downhill slope, and then they hosed them with lead.
These Germans were in an impossible position and most of them retreated quickly. But the German commander ordered them back and increased the number of troops.
Again the machine gunners waited until the attackers were concentrated on the opposite slope before they opened fire.
Many of the Germans retreated again, but a large number ran on through the furious hail of lead and down into the bottom of the gulch. They then had to struggle up the steep incline toward the gunners on the ridge, and the machine guns accounted for almost all of them. The few who made it to the ridge were exhausted and no match for the waiting British soldiery.
Despite the heat of the battle, Casca fired carefully, making every bullet count, and most of the Tommies did the same, conserving their scanty ammunition. Expert though they were with the bayonet, none of them wanted to be forced to use it.
As he shot each sweating German, Casca became more and more angry. The blind futility of their attack infuriated him.
"Dumb Kraut," he snarled as he squeezed off a shot that took off a German's helmet together with the top of his head. "Fuck off, Fritz," he shouted as another turned to run back down the slope. Finally, magazine empty, he got to his feet shouting, "Get off this hill, you useless, fucking idiots!"
And suddenly he was out of his hole, racing toward the handful of advancing Germans, the bayonet glinting at the end of his empty rifle.
His rage was contagious, and several men who were out of ammunition ran with him, and a number of them died, but his anger kept him moving until he was amongst the Germans, shooting, stabbing, and clubbing. Casca's bayonet ran red, and he was quickly drenched with blood. All around him Germans were lying in grotesque contortions as they tried to hold onto their spilling intestines.
In a matter of minutes the hill was cleared of Germans, and Casca and the surviving Tommies ran back to their holes.
Now that the British had exposed their position, Casca expected the German commander to call off the infantry and launch another bombardment with hi
s abundant artillery.
Instead, the infantry kept coming.
"Yesterday's orders," George muttered to Casca as the waves of gray uniforms swept down the hill.
"Yeah," Casca agreed, "we're lucky their command structure is as rigid as ours."
"And maybe as misinformed, too," George said. "D'you know, whenever I get a chance to talk to any of our field officers, they don't want to hear what I have to say."
"I believe you," Casca replied, "but I don't understand it.''
He recognized that the war had become a struggle in attrition, but even on those terms, neither side's tactics made sense to him. It seemed that the only orders that either high command could think of were simply to charge directly into the enemy guns, as the Germans were now doing. Few of them got close enough to inflict any damage on the British defenders in spite of their scanty protection. And when the sun went down again, the Tommies were still in position.
The day's losses had been relatively light, and there were almost enough mules to carry all the badly wounded back to the hospital. But the armory wagons brought only some .303 ammunition, a few shells for the five-inch guns, and none for the Hotchkiss machine guns.
Casca made himself comfortable in the bottom of his foxhole, ignoring the cold and the continuing noise. But he could not ignore the thoughts that came crowding into his head. His mind seethed in a mutinous rage at the high command officers and their suicidal orders. He had now been fighting for more than a month, and as far as he could see, to no effect. Each day the two forces attacked each other as if they were all blind and stupid, even drunk. And like drunks, it seemed to Casca that they were fighting without any sensible purpose.
As he closed his eyes, he thought that the next day was going to be hell no matter what mistakes the German commander might continue to make.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning dawned bright and clear. And noisy as usual.
The German heavy guns were reaching for the Tommies, dug in on the ridge. The abrupt peak in the landscape made a difficult target, and most of the shells fell either short or long. Those that landed anywhere near the ridge, however, had a devastating effect on the poorly sheltered Tommies.
A dispatch runner had carried the news of the battle to headquarters and returned with orders for a frontal attack on the German position on the farther ridge.
"Sheer fucking lunacy," Lieutenant George fumed as he led his men into the doomed action.
Casca could only agree as he followed. They charged down the short slope, many falling now to the artillery shells that were exploding short of the ridge. The artillery fire continued the slaughter as they crossed the gulch, and then they struggled up the long slope toward the well-entrenched Germans.
The German machine guns opened fire, raking the hillside with lead and wiping out huge numbers of British soldiers. The numerous craters excavated the previous day by the five-inch guns provided some protection, and Casca gratefully leaped into one and hurried to use his entrenching tool to deepen it.
All over the slope men were going to the ground in the same fashion, while those who didn't died quickly.
But Major Blandings had other ideas. He had received orders to engage the Germans and was determined to do so. The impossibility of the task and the misguided nature of the uninformed orders did not concern him. He appeared on the slope amongst the troops, an immaculate, erect, khaki-clad figure, slapping his elegant leather leggings with a swagger stick as he exhorted the troops to move up the slope.
Casca cursed to himself as he clambered out of the safety of his crater. The best thing to do, he told himself, would be to shoot the bloody fool and put an end to the useless attack. But it was impossible not to admire the blind bravery of the man and almost impossible not to follow him.
They gained a few yards and went to the ground again. But after only a couple of minutes, the major was moving once more back and forth across the slope, chanting a string of absurdities about service to king and country, the glory of the empire, and more nonsense than Casca had heard on a battlefield in two thousand years. It seemed, though, that personal battle experience had mellowed the ill-tempered officer, and he no longer abused his men, nor did he again mention cowardice.
Then, for some reason that he didn't himself understand, Casca was on his feet leading a small group of men in a headlong charge into the mouth of the German guns.
Most of his men went down, and when he stumbled on the lip of a crater, Casca was pleased to fall into it. He lay in the bottom, his face pressed into the broken earth, gasping for breath and cursed King George, the British Empire, the British army, its officers, and especially Major Blandings.
But before very long, he was back on his feet and once more racing up the slope with men dying alongside him. When they got to within a hundred yards of the German position, the attack faltered to a halt. Any further advance was impossible. Any man who stood erect for a moment was cut apart by the withering machine gun fire. Even the stupidly heroic major was now sheltering in a crater.
And now the Germans brought trench mortars to bear, small weapons that fired a high explosive shell. These weapons were not high powered and had only a short range, but with the machine guns keeping everybody in the craters, the mortars found their targets.
For a moment Casca closed his eyes in despair. Their position was hopeless. To turn and run back down the long slope would only invite a machine gun bullet in the back. And to move forward meant collecting one in the front. But to stay put meant that sooner or later he would collect a mortar shell in the crater.
Casca crawled to the lip of his hole and took careful aim at the closest mortar crew. The .303 Lee Enfield was a clumsy, heavy rifle, but it was highly accurate. By the time he had emptied his five-shot magazine, he had killed all three of the mortar crew.
He reloaded and turned his attention to a machine gun. He picked off the man pulling the belt and then the loader. The gun promptly jammed, and when the triggerman moved to free the belt, Casca shot him in the head.
He reloaded again, fixed his bayonet, and, calling to the men of his company, climbed out of the crater and charged for the silent machine gun. A number of men charged with him. From somewhere nearby he heard the bagpipes and knew that George, too, was leading a charge.
Major Blandings was quickly on his feet, directing more men to follow. All along the line Tommies were coming up out of the ground and running for the German trench.
When he was almost there, Casca lobbed two Mills bombs, crouched to wait for their explosions, and then raced forward. There were no wire, and in an instant he was in the trench. Other Tommies tumbled in behind him, and they charged left and right along the excavation.
The trench was a mass of milling men, too close-pressed to shoot, fighting mainly with bayonets. The advantage was with the British troops who rarely had anything other than their bayonets and were ready and skilled with them. The Germans' lightweight Mauser rifles were ineffective for parrying the heavy Lee Enfields, and most of the defenders fell to the British bayonets before they could bring their own blades into the fight.
But the numbers were with the Germans, and they were quickly supported by troops from farther along the trench. The counterattack pushed the Tommies back to where they had entered the trench. More and more British were now arriving, and the close quarters battle became a confused blood bath.
Tommies on the ground above the trench were lobbing Mills bombs, blowing many Germans to bits, but also blasting some of their own men. The British were shooting down into the trench, but many of them were falling to fire from the defenders.
Inside the trench more and more Tommies were dying as the Germans closed on them from both sides. Casca clambered out and crouched on the edge of the trench, to help other Tommies out. Then they were all running wildly back down the slope, to stumble into the nearest shell craters.
Germans came running from the trenches. Many were cut down by British rifle fire, while those t
hat made it to where the Tommies crouched in the craters were outnumbered and few survived.
But more and more Germans made the attempt, and soon the Tommies were racing back for their own lines with the Germans in hot pursuit. At least, Casca thought as he ran, they can't use those fucking machine guns with the Jerries so close after us.
They reached the gulch and raced across it, but as they began to climb the next slope, the pursuing Germans caught up with them. The numbers in the gulch were roughly even, and the fighting was fast and furious.
And eventually, the British were retreating in good order up the next slope, holding off the Germans with cool, steady rifle fire.
As they neared the ridge, Casca was once more cursing Major Blandings for a fool. No troops had been kept in reserve. Even a few fresh men would have had an enormous effect if they were now to enter the fight from the vantage point of the ridge. But there were no such troops. The only men on the ridge were the machine gun crews, the wounded, and a few runners and medics.
As the Tommies gained their foxholes, their machine guns opened up and cut a swath out of the advancing Germans. Major Blandings stood exposed on the ridge, signaling in semaphore to the distant artillery. He had also dispatched a runner to the guns, but it seemed to take forever before the first shells started to fall on the Germans who were now coming down the long slope in large numbers.
The battle became a repetition of the previous day. The German infantry advanced in wave after wave, each successive attack faltering as it neared the bottom of the long slope and ran into the British cannon fire. Most of these attacks came to a halt as the troops commenced the steep climb out of the gulch and were cut to pieces by the machine guns on the ridge above them.
Late in the afternoon the Germans started to gain ground on the short, steep slope as the Hotchkiss machine guns ran out of ammunition. But when the sun set again over the blood-soaked ground, the British still held their precarious perch on the ridge.