The Battalion spent the rest of the day burying them.
Corporal Joe Hoyles, MM, No. 3237, 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
There was a terrific smell. It was so awful it nearly poisoned you. A smell of rotten flesh. The old German front line was covered with bodies – they were seven and eight deep and they had all gone black. The smell! These people had been laying since the First of July. Wicked it was! Colonel Pinney got hold of some stretchers and our job was to put the bodies on them and, with a man at each end, we threw them into that crater. There must have been over a thousand bodies there. I don’t know how many we buried. I’ll never forget that sight. Bodies all over the place. I’ll never forget it. I was only eighteen, but I thought, ‘There’s something wrong here!
Sergeant Jack Cross, No. 4842, C Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
My job was to take the identity discs off the dead men. Other people were detailed off to collect the rifles and other people collected the equipment and then there was a band of stretcher-bearers who picked up these dead gentlemen and took them to the edge of this crater and tipped them over, rolled them down and they buried themselves in the chalk before they got to the bottom.
Corporal Horace Smith, MM, No. 3697, 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
My lot, we had to collect the bodies off the old German wire. Over 200 we counted. And we dumped them in the crater. All the time we were getting shelled, and casualties were happening of course. Some of us was hoping they’d happen. I know I didn’t mind it happening! Then I got it! I’d just jumped in a trench between two men, Gomer Evans and Dick Darling, and as I jumped in there was this terrific crash. I didn’t know any more until I woke up a few minutes later, and there was old Gomer Evans, he’d got the top of his nut blown off, and Dick Darling, he’d got it in the back. His kidneys blown out. We had to bury them both. But we didn’t put them in the crater. We buried them just to the side of it.
Acting-Corporal Rupert Weeber, No. 4477, 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
As far as you could see there were all these bodies lying out there – literally thousands of them, just where they’d been caught on the First of July. Some were without legs, some were legs without bodies, arms without bodies. A terrible sight. They’d been churned up by shells even after they were killed. We were just dumping them into the crater just filling them over. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t get inside me or scare me, but it just made me wonder that these could have been men. It made me wonder what it was all about. And far away in the distance we could see nothing but a line of bursting shells. It was continuous. You wouldn’t have thought that anybody could have existed in it, it was so terrific. And yet we knew we were going up into it, with not an earthly chance.
The shells were bursting on the line where the troops were grappling with the enemy at Mametz Wood and, nearer still, struggling to capture the village of Contalmaison. It lay beyond them in the dark, three kilometres ahead of the big crater where the blackened bodies of the dead committed to its depths were sinking, by the weight of their numbers, into the crumbling chalk.
Chapter 11
The road that once flew arrow-straight from Albert to Bapaume bisected the battlefield. Before 1914 the traffic it carried had hardly changed since the Roman Legions had marched along it when France was Gaul. Half a dozen farm carts might trundle down to Albert or up to Bapaume on their respective market days. A bicycle might be seen from time to time, free-wheeling down the hill from Pozières to la Boisselle, but the sight of an occasional motor car, travelling at a dizzy twenty-five miles an hour en route to Albert or Amiens, was enough to interrupt work in the fields on either side for up to five minutes while the peasants goggled and gaped.
The peasants themselves travelled mostly on foot and mostly away from the main road. From the farms and smallholdings in the villages there were easier ways to get to market. The country was criss-crossed with tracks and lanes, linking the villages and running out to the surrounding woods and farmlands, tramped out by ten generations of feet going backwards and forwards to the fields, of woodcutters hauling timber, of women in shapeless country black, work-worn and weather-beaten, plodding to market weighed down by heavy baskets of farm produce. In the morning the oxen lumbered out to the fields; in the evening the cows were driven home for milking and at harvest time carts, heavy with hay or mangel wurzels, gouged ever-deeper the permanent ruts that had finally turned the tracks into roads and put them on the map. There were more roads in the Somme countryside than there were places to go. It was hardly surprising that its inhabitants preferred the by-ways to the hard pavé of the single highway. Living in close-knit communities in their separate villages, few of them ever had much occasion even to cross it.
But the main road was a landmark. A daughter who had married from Contalmaison or Bazentin and gone to live at Ovillers or Courcelette, twenty minutes’ walk away, would be described as living ‘à l’autre côté’, as if she had gone to the other side of the Atlantic, while the residents of Thiepval and Fricourt, just six kilometres apart on either side of the main road, would refer to each other as ‘ces gens là’, as if they inhabited separate planets.
Things had changed only slightly since the coming of the railway but, even in this respect, the country-folk south of the road felt a certain superiority to those who lived to the north of it. Over there the main line thundered through the Ancre valley on its way to Paris. There were stations at Miraumont, at Beaucourt, at Hamel, where a few local trains stopped once or twice a day. There was a single-line track that climbed up behind Aveluy Wood to Mesnil and chuffed behind the ridges past Serre to Puisieux, but it was nothing compared to the network of ‘railways’ that meandered through the fields and villages of the country south of the main road, in much the same manner as the wayward tracks and lanes. And, although the ‘trains’ were little more than tram-cars, in this gentler terrain it had been possible to lay a considerable network of track.
North of the Albert–Bapaume road the land swept up to the dramatic bluffs and ridges, the steep slopes and deep valleys on both sides of the River Ancre. South of the road, it dropped away and unrolled a carpet of fields and meadows in a panorama of soft hills and valleys, rising gradually to the horizon where the poplars, marching along the high road to Peronne, stood sentinel on the skyline. In this idyllic landscape, the last idyllic touch was its lush, abundant woodland.
The woods appeared on the British Army maps in a strange conglomeration of names. Mametz Wood, Bernafay and Trones, presented no problem, although anyone who cared to look closely at the pre-war maps might notice that the original ‘c’ of ‘Troncs’ had been mis-read or misprinted as an ‘e’. ‘Thrones’ or ‘tree trunks’ – it made little difference to the troops who were fighting for it now. Getting its name right was the least of their worries.
To the right of Montauban, Bernafay Wood and Trones Wood had been the first big obstacles in the way of the advance when the troops had broken the German line in the south. Even now, when they had swept ahead of Montauban and the bloody stumps of Bernafay Wood were in their hands, although the edge of Trones Wood was only a couple of hundred yards away, they had captured a mere toe-hold, at its southern end. Trones was shaped like a pear-drop and beyond its elongated northern tip lay all the strength of the Germans’ second-line position. It was natural that the Germans were going to fight for Trones Wood as savagely as they were fighting to hold on to Mametz Wood away to the other side of Montauban. There too the British troops had only managed to capture the tip of one long spur of woodland projecting from the thick mass of the wood itself, and they had not quite managed to capture all of Contalmaison village lying off to the left.
Now that the Fricourt Salient had been pinched out, it was at Contalmaison that the line swung round and, in a sense, linked up.
The four villages of Ovillers, Pozières, Contalmaison and la Boisselle form a rough rectangle with a village at each corner bisected diagonally by the Albert–Bapaume ro
ad, as it runs from la Boisselle (in the bottom left, opposite Ovillers) to Pozières, astride it in the top right ‘corner’, opposite Contalmaison.
If Pozières could be captured, then Ovillers would automatically fall, and Thiepval, still standing impregnable on its bluff above the Ancre, might be taken in the rear. With Contalmaison in British hands, the way would be open to pour troops into Mametz Wood from the left, to join up with the Welsh who were thrusting into its southern flank and to push on together to crack the Germans’ second-line defences at a blow. By the evening of 9 July the line ran through the southern edge of Contalmaison and, swinging northwards a mile to the left of the village, crossed the road that ran between it and la Boisselle. That evening the 13th Battalion, The Rifle Brigade, moved up from la Boisselle and into the new front line. They were facing the open country that lay between the strongpoint that was Contalmaison and the fortress that was Pozières.
It was a slithering, wet shambles of a night. The churning shellfire, the constant traffic, the frequent showers of the ten days’ fighting had turned the trenches into ditches running with mud. Next morning, a slight steam rose above them under the hot rays of the sun. It was a beautiful day. It was also a day of hellish noise for the Welshmen of the 38th Division were hammering hard for Mametz Wood and, on the immediate right of the Battalion, the 23rd Division were attacking Contalmaison village. By half-past five in the afternoon the village had been captured.
At eight o’clock two battalions of the 111th Brigade were ordered to prepare to attack. The 13th Battalion in the front-line trench were to lead it. The Germans had last been seen streaming out of Contalmaison north to Pozières, protected by the trenchline on the left which was still in their hands, still strongly held and directly in front of the 13th Rifle Brigade. This was the trenchline the Battalion was ordered to capture. On their left, the 25th Division would attack astride the main road and, at the same time, part of the 23rd Division would attack on their right. There would be a heavy barrage to support them. They lined up, well back, on either side of the country tramway track. It was a beautiful evening.
Corporal Joe Hoyles, MM, No. 3237, A Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
It was a very bright hot day and we’d seen Contalmaison go up in the air. We’d seen the church go up in the air. Marvellous gunnery
The Attack at Contalmaison on 10th July
it was, our gunnery. We had to take to the left of Contalmaison. I was a section leader and Colonel Pinney came by the Platoon and he said, ‘We’re going over at 8.45. Set your watches.’ Those of us in charge of sections had to take our sections over. Where I got my courage from I don’t know. I suppose, being young, one had an ‘Up Guards and at ‘em’, sort of feeling. Some men funked it of course. They went over all right, they had to or they’d have got my bayonet up their arse. But you could tell from their faces that a lot of people dreaded it. We went over with fixed bayonets and we all had a Mills bomb in our hands. It was a quarter or a third of a mile to the first German trench.
Rifleman Ed McGrath, D Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
I can see in my mind’s eye, Captain Smith, watch in hand in the trench, just before we went over. He soon gave the order and over we went. I remember how I felt like Barnacle Bill, all dressed up like a Christmas tree. Rifle slung, spade in braces, and two bandoliers of ammo, one Mills bomb in my right hand, pin out, and two in a mess tin cover in my left.
Rifleman George Murrell, B Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
Some of us South African boys were told we were wanted at the other end of the trench. An officer called out, ‘Lewis-gunners, over here.’ My brother was with me, in the same team. We formed up and I found myself carrying a Lewis-gun pannier and many drums of spare ammunition – at a guess about 800 rounds. Sewrey then took my rifle to carry it and the next thing was – Over the Top! By the time we had got fifty yards or so Sewrey was hit and I was charging the enemy with plenty of bullets but no rifle.
Corporal Bob Thompson, No. 2756, D Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
I had a Lewis-gun team of about six men. We weren’t in the front of the first line because, with a Lewis-gun and carrying ammunition, you’re not able to do trench attacking really. You let your attacking infantry take the line, then you can go in, you see, because you can’t defend yourself with a Lewis-gun. So we were in the second line, or what there was of us. I lost all my lot. I can still hear the bullets zipping up, like a lot of bees and tufts of dirt, thrown up in front of you where the Jerries were shooting. You could see them going zzzp… zzzp, like a lot of bees.
Sergeant Jack Cross, No. 4842, C Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
We impressed upon the chaps in the platoon, ‘Don’t stick together, don’t bunch. Keep apart. If you bunch up they’ll pick you off like rabbits.’ I was on the left of my platoon on one side of the tramway and Sergeant Laney was on my left on the other side, because he was the right man of No. 11 Platoon. It was only about a hundred yards, or maybe a hundred and fifty yards in front of us, the first German trench, and we’d got to go straight ahead and capture that position. The whistle went and away they went. As soon as they did you could hear the bullets whistling. I yelled at Laney, ‘Look at that lot going through there!’ There was a gap in the wire and the platoon in front of us converged on it and into the gap. They went down, just like that! I should think every man was mortally wounded.
Corporal Joe Hoyles, MM, No. 3237, 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
I always remember saying to my section, ‘Come on Rifle Brigade! The first time Over the Top. Here we go!’ And off we went. We were in the first wave, and our platoon officer, Fitzgibbon, was away out in front of us. They just mowed us down! People were falling on your right and your left and of course you had to keep going forward.
Rifleman Ed McGrath, D Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
We hadn’t gone very far and our section got less and less until there were only two of us left. I remember calling to the chap I was with, ‘I think we’re the only ones who are going to get through this lot!’ Then I got a jolt in my thigh and my leg came up and hit me in the face. It literally hit me in the face! Down I went!
Rifleman George Murrell, B Coy., 13th (S) Btn., The Rifle Brigade
There was no artillery barrage and so every sniper and machine-gunner had a marvellous target as we advanced in short rushes. I was so laden that I had difficulty in keeping up and I must have made a good single target at times. But all the time I tried to keep up with my brother. Then he went down beside me and I yelled, ‘What’s the matter? Are you hit?’ And he looked up at me, in an absolute fury, and shouted, ‘No! I’m picking daisies, you bloody fool!’ We had to go on. You couldn’t stop for a wounded man – even if it was your own brother! I carried on about thirty yards or so and then suddenly my legs went from under me. I hadn’t felt anything. I thought I’d stumbled into a shell-hole. Then I found that my left leg was quite useless. I couldn’t move! In the meantime the advance had continued.
Murrell was not alone in noticing that there was no artillery barrage. Pretor-Pinney noticed it too. It had not worried him that there had been no preliminary gunfire, for the attack had been mounted hastily. But the orders which had reached him at eight o’clock had stated clearly that the guns would support the troops as they went across, that the 13th Royal Fusiliers would come up, straight away behind them, that the 23rd and 25th Divisions would be attacking to the left and to the right of them. Now, dodging the bullets, seeing his Battalion falling all around him, even with the hammering of the machine-guns and the cries and the noise of the fight, Pretor-Pinney was not so deafened that he could fail to observe that they had no supporting barrage. Nor was there a barrage to the left or to the right of his Battalion where the other troops should have been attacking. Furthermore, as he glanced anxiously behind him from his position in the last wave, he could see none of the Royal Fusiliers who should have been following on their heels coming up
to support them.
There were no troops advancing to support them. There were no troops advancing simultaneously on left and right. In the evening sunlight, the Battalion was advancing alone against the full strength of a triple line of German trenches. This was the long-awaited moment; the climax of the last two years; the first real trial of strength; the first time ‘Over the Top’.
In all the rhetoric of the war, like the words dauntless, dogged and gallant, ‘at all costs’ was an oft-repeated phrase that rang through every report, every Communiqué, every citation, every tale of heroic adventure and misadventure, every celebration of success, every letter of condolence, every justification of failure.
Now, The Rifle Brigade were determined, ‘at all costs’, to capture the lethal stretch of line. The Germans were equally determined ‘at all costs’ to hold on to it.
Even without support they made it. Even though men were falling at every step, the survivors kept on. They took the first German line. They bombed and battled their way into the second. With superhuman effort, through a maelstrom of bullets whistling down the hill from the line in front of Pozières, a small force had even got into the strongpoint in the third German line. It appeared on the map as a ‘strongpoint’ – but, in reality, it was a fort constructed around a small chalk quarry halfway down a sunken track that linked the road from la Boisselle to Contalmaison with the road from Albert to Bapaume. The sunken lane was now a trench, lined with concrete pillboxes. The ‘chalk pit’ was riddled with dugouts. From its lip machine-guns were firing at pointblank range. They were firing at Tom Jolly and a handful of 13 Platoon as they bombed their way towards it.
It was just about this time that the runner caught up with Colonel Pretor-Pinney as he stopped in a shell-hole to take stock of the situation and to watch as the flurry of fighting intensified around the chalk pit a couple of hundred yards ahead. The runner had only breath enough to gasp, ‘Attack cancelled, sir.’ And in bleak confirmation he thrust the written message into the Colonel’s hand. It had been sent out from Divisional Headquarters, and passed on in good time by Brigade. It had reached the artillery in time to prevent them firing the barrage. It had reached the 23rd Division, which had been preparing to attack on the right. It had reached the 25th Division on the left. It had reached the 13th Royal Fusiliers, in time enough to stop them moving forward in the second wave. Now, belatedly, it had reached the 13th Rifle Brigade.
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