‘Men,’ said the lieutenant, ‘from the information we have received from our own reconnaissance, our objectives beyond the German front line should be no more than 150 yards. Under no circumstances should you look to go beyond that. Our job,’ he continued, as he raised his voice slightly to emphasise his point, ‘is to take their front line and turn it into a secure defensive position. Pay special attention to your flanks, as we will rely on the success of the 15th Brigade; they too will be dependent on the success of the British 184th. God speed and good luck; your section leaders will go into more detail, dismissed.’
‘You heard the lieutenant, back to it,’ barked the infamous Sergeant Bourke.
‘I’ll give him back to it,’ hissed Tom,’ while he loitered with the other men. Sticks lit a smoke for Tom and Dave, as well as one for himself.
‘I’ll be stuffed how they got that recon on the German trenches,’ said Dave in a low voice. ‘You couldn’t see two feet in front of you yesterday with that mist; how could an airman see what was what?’
‘They know what they’re doing,’ replied Sticks, optimistically.
‘Sullivan, if I’ve learnt one thing from this blasted war, it’s this. The Brass couldn’t find their own arse if they shit ’emselves.’ Stated Dave.
‘That’s a fact,’ said Tom.
‘Move on you lot,’ hissed Sergeant Bourke, ‘work to be done.’
***
Fleurbaix, Front line, 19 July
A thick mist lay over the men like a heavy quilt, but unlike the comfort of being tucked in bed on a Sunday morning, this blanket sat cold and menacing. It forewarned the men of what lay ahead.
Alf Conner made his way through a group of soldiers from 2 Platoon and stopped to exchange a few words with old acquaintances before he sat on the bare earth among his men. He looked at the group of silent infantrymen and studied their faces. He knew, for many, it would be their last hours on this Earth. Having been baptised into war on the Gallipoli Peninsula, Alf Conner knew that all men handled battle, and in particular the hours that led up to it, in different ways. Some like Arthur Atkins and David Smith were relaxed; they ate and talked quietly amongst themselves. Jack Sticks Sullivan had the same easy way about him, which surprised Alf, because novices weren’t usually like that. Others, like Francis Tench and Birdie Finch, expressed their anxiety through movement; the confined spaces of the support trenches were like a cage for them. The virgin warriors released their pent-up tension by a tap of the foot while they wrote a letter, or the frantic movement of a thumb and forefinger, as they cleaned the barrel of their rifle.
The person that caught Alf’s eye more than anyone in his section was Private Clarence Miller. Corporal Conner watched as Clarrie sat with his back against the sap wall. His expression was a mixture of detachment and serenity. Alf would say he was scared, but his eyes told a different story. It was like—in a strange way—he wasn’t with them. He would respond to a request, if asked, but then resume his pose as before. His eyes saw something other than the damp smelly earth, covered in opaque moist air.
‘Boys, listen up,’ said Corporal Conner. The men responded instantly to his call; James Cook and ‘Smelly’ Tench lifted their pencils and looked up at their section commander with bulging eyes. ‘Zero hour has been set for 11:00 hours.’ The men stared back at Alf. All of them had accepted that this moment would arrive, but the words that the corporal spoke brought a reality to the situation that affected them all. James Cook, scared, allowed a small trace of urine to escape his bladder; the young private arrested it with tensed stomach muscles, and twitched as a result.
‘The barrage will last for seven hours,’ continued Alf. ‘Our A Company will deploy into no-man’s-land, along with B Company, at exactly 17.43 hours, under the cover of artillery. We will move up as close as we can to the enemy position and take cover to wait for the final lift in the barrage. That will be the signal for us to attack.’ Corporal Conner paused for a moment and allowed what he had just said to register with his men.
‘Bugger,’ said Sticks Sullivan.
‘What’s up Sticks?’ enquired Alf.
‘Just cut me bloomin’ finger on this bully-beef tin.’
‘Stretcher bearer,’ said Tom Baker, in a muffled roar.
The rest of the men, as well as James Captain Cook, laughed, not only at Sticks and his reaction, but his apparent lack of concern for what lay ahead.
‘Righto, settle down boys,’ said Corporal Conner. ‘Thanks Sticksy.’
‘It bloody hurt.’
‘I bet it did,’ said Conner, as a lone German shell sailed harmlessly overhead. ‘If I may, Private Sullivan?’
Sticks nodded his head towards Alf, while he placed his cut finger in his mouth.
‘One thing I can’t emphasise enough is to keep moving once you’re in no-man’s. Brass has told us that our guns will have Fritz tucked away in his shelter, but nothing ever goes to plan, so be ready for anything.’
‘Corporal Conner’s right, men,’ said Lance Corporal Atkins. ‘Get to cover as quickly as possible and when that barrage lifts, run like scalded cats into those enemy trenches and kill every fucking German you see.’
‘Rest up for now, boys,’ said Corporal Conner, ‘we will move into position soon.’
***
19 July, 1916 Fleurbaix
Dearest Ruth and baby Reginald,
Last hours before battle and my thoughts are with you. Send my love to all. Archie is well and will do his section proud. The men are in good spirits, my mate Sticks making everyone laugh. All my love, Clarence.
If my fate should be, that I stay in these fields,
Know that I loved my life’s love,
the life of our love living on.
***
Chunks of earth fell on steel helmets and hunched-over bodies. The German shelling, which had increased significantly since 14:30 hours, coincided with the bringing up of troops. It had a deadly and debilitating effect on the stationary soldiers. Already, three of the four company commanders from 53rd Battalion had been killed. It increased the confusion within the ranks, and the likelihood of failure, before they began.
Screams of agony from men shredded with shrapnel pierced the senses of those untouched, as soldiers, limbs torn from bodies, lay strewn amongst their comrades. Dead or wounded, the essence of their youth leached into the Flanders clay.
Huddled against the breast works and each other, the soldiers gritted their teeth and prayed. The enemy barrage approached like a storm of death and hit targets indiscriminately.
‘Our Father who art in heaven... ahh!’ screamed Clarence in anguish, both arms wrapped around his head. The blast from a German shell toppled sandbags from the parapet onto him and the men close by. In an attempt to break out of the tomb, Clarence frantically twisted and contorted his body under the weight of the bags. He tried to move, but both arms and legs were pinned around his neck on the duck-boarded floor. After a short and futile struggle, Clarence was suddenly imbued with a bizarre feeling of security. His survival instinct, sharp and non-consultative, had reacted to the danger of being buried alive. It suddenly remembered the scene he had just left.
Could I lie here in peace? Clarence thought. Mud from the trench floor oozed through the duckboards and pressed into his eyes and mouth. I’m wounded, aren’t I? The battle is over for me. A feeling of relief mixed with guilt washed through Private Miller, as a quick release of weight from his back caused a rush of air to enter his lungs; the light from a dust-filled sky hit his face as he was rolled onto his back by the rescuer’s arms.
‘Thought we lost you there for a second,’ yelled Dave Smith. The private picked up Clarence’s steel helmet and slapped it back on his mud-covered head. ‘Don’t go anywhere without this,’ said Smith, as he passed Clarrie his rifle.
Clarrie nodded a thank you at Dave for saving him—not entirely convinced if he truly was. Dave slapped him on the shoulder and then continued to lift the fallen sandbags into a pile. Private
Baker attempted to throw them back on the parapet, but was met with machine-gun fire, which saw him dive for cover. Mortar fire from a Minenwerfer—German for mine launcher or light mortar—followed directly after the bullets; they struck the parapet wall where Clarrie’s unit was bunched. Private Miller pressed himself against the breast works once again, while he placed one hand on top of his helmet. With his eyes shut, he held his breath and prayed. He prayed that the smaller shell of the Minenwerfer would fall short of their target, and several of the feared projectiles did just that. Until a single shell—its trajectory affected by a sudden change in wind—cleared the parapet wall and detonated amongst the duckboards only thirty yards from Clarence.
Splinters from the temporary flooring, pieces of mud and human flesh, showered men either side of the blast. A cloud of dust receded to reveal an armless Francis Tench, who staggered towards where Clarence and David Smith sat, dazed and disorientated. Blood pulsed from the cavity that was once his shoulder. He stopped and stared blankly and gasped hoarsely for breath. His hair was saturated with blood and his face—on one side–was grotesquely scarred from heat and debris. He collapsed and died. A hole in the dead soldier’s back, the size of a man’s fist, held Clarence’s gaze.
Propelled by fear-induced adrenalin, Clarence rushed to Tench’s side, then practically, but shamefully, he moved on. Clarence noticed more casualties, and knew nothing could resurrect the quiet and meek Tench. He crawled on hands and knees to a uniformed body, slumped in the foetal position; Clarrie reached out with his left hand and grabbed the soldier’s tunic. Clarence talked to the man as he pulled.
‘It’s alright, mate, it’s alright,’ said Clarrie. He felt the dead weight of lifelessness in the body. He suddenly realised it wasn’t all right as he had promised. ‘It’s al... No!’ Clarence reacted sharply. ‘No, get up, no! Somebody help me!’ screamed Clarence, demented and horrified. Clarrie turned the corpse over to reveal a calm but barren face. Enraged, the veins in Clarence’s temples were dark, and they protruded like they threatened to burst under the strain. He lifted his face skywards while he clutched Jack Sullivan’s bloody tunic with both fists. The rage subsided to hopeless grief. His chin fell to his chest and acid tears rolled down his face.
Clarence slumped to sit alongside his dead mate. He remained unmoved as another shell exploded dangerously close to their position. Distraught, he held his head in his hands and then inhaled deeply. He moved mechanically, and gently opened Jack’s pockets to remove some personal items to place in his own tunic. Clarence received a tap on the shoulder followed by a calm word. He then picked up his rifle and moved like a zombie back to his position next to Dave Smith. He gripped the rifle firmly as he squatted, the weapon helping to hold his nerve as much as his balance.
In a cruel twist that demonstrated the uncertainty and arbitrary nature of war, the guns that had pounded ceased their carnage on the forward line moments after Jack was killed. The silence was shattered as another German barrage opened up, this time on the support trenches.
***
Front line, 17:40 hours
‘Three minutes, Arthur,’ said Corporal Conner from the fire-step, ready to lead his section into no-man’s land.
Three minutes,’ relayed Arthur Atkins. The message was passed down the line, as shell after shell from their own guns whizzed high overhead before they crashed into the fortified German front-line.
‘How are the men in your section, Corporal?’ enquired Lieutenant Sharp.
‘Good, Lieutenant,’ replied Corporal Conner, ‘two casualties from the bombardment.’
‘See you in the German lines, Corporal.’
Lieutenant Sharp knew how crucial events to their right would be in determining their own fate. He turned to Lieutenant Colonel Norris, 53rd Battalion commander, and had a brief and intense discussion before the lieutenant colonel moved towards 1 Platoon. Lieutenant Sharp knew it would be critical that the 15th Brigade on their right, in particular the 60th Battalion, which were the 53rd’s right flank, reached their objective. They in turn were reliant on the success of the British 184th Brigade, who had the toughest assignment of all, a frontal attack on the Sugar Loaf salient.
Clarence stood on the fire-step between Tom Baker and David Smith and wondered if Archie had made it through the barrage. Maybe he had got a minor wound and is already back at a dressing station, Clarence thought, and hoped. The ground rumbled from the relentless bombardment, and sent vibrations up through his feet, that were close to being numb with fear. Clarrie glanced along the line and spotted Sergeant Bourke with Alf Conner. The sergeant consulted his timepiece, and then waved his arm in a signal for his men to move over the parapet.
His mouth dry, Clarence took short sharp breaths to ready himself for what lay over the sandbags. He cleared the parapet, rolled and then sprung to his feet to see the sparse, featureless ground spread out before him. Clouds of smoke and debris formed ahead as the artillery punched away at the German lines. With roughly two hundred and fifty yards to cover, Clarence ran. The sound of his heart registered above the clamour of battle. The crack of sporadic rifle fire drew his attention, while the dreaded knock, knock, knock of the German machine gun was faint and far to his right.
He passed some brush, knee high and spread out to his left. He saw, one, two, and then three men fall from 5 Section. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he sprinted to make the relative cover of the enemy parapet. The British barrage continued. Clarence was knocked off his feet, but uninjured, when a shell, commonly known as a drop-short, exploded ahead of him.
‘Useless pricks,’ yelled Tom, as he pulled a stunned Clarrie to his feet.
‘Keep moving, Miller,’ shouted Sergeant Bourke. He waved his arm to encourage Clarence. Bourke’s movement ceased when a bullet from a German Mauser rifle pierced his eyeball. It exited in a gush of blood and brains through the back of his skull. Fragments splattered Clarence’s face, but a push in the back from David Smith urged Private Miller forward, and Sergeant Norman Bourke into memory.
The Diggers had to pause as they approached the German wire entanglements, which put them in great danger of being picked off. The gaps, narrow where they should have been wide, caused a bottleneck. The soldiers were forced to scamper through as best they could. The only saving grace was the lack of enemy fire. To their right, the sound of relentless machine-gun and rifle fire filled the air. It had devastated the men of the 15th Brigade.
With his eyes strained to catch sight of danger, Clarence cleared the wire and sprinted for a crater close to the enemy defences. He hit the dirt hard, and was jolted from behind by Smith, and then Baker, who rolled over the top of him as he gasped for breath.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ mumbled Private Baker, ‘that wire was supposed to be gone.’
‘Keep it down,’ hissed Smith. ‘Looks like most of the Germans have pissed off… a few brave bastards have hung around though.’
‘Salient hasn’t been knocked out,’ whispered Clarrie. ‘15th have copped it.’
‘Poor bastards,’ sighed Baker, as artillery fire struck all around them in clouds of dust and grey-brown smoke.
The three men spun around violently, startled by two more men who had leapt into the improvised shelter.
‘Christ, Arthur,’ hissed Private Smith, ‘where did you come from?’
Lance Corporal Atkins jerked his head to the right to answer the question. He pushed Joseph Finch’s head down into the dirt, just as Finch lifted it perilously high. The young private was dazed and confused; his eyes darted every which way. Atkins moved close to Baker and Smith and reminded them of their objectives. He told them that Corporal Conner and Private Cook were to their right, and that 1 Platoon would probably need assistance to secure the flank, as the 15th had been hit hard on the right.
‘Soon as that barrage stops,’ said Atkins, ‘you boys go like hell.’
Smith and Baker nodded in acknowledgment and then focused on the defensive position in front of them.
&nbs
p; ‘Keep Birdie with you,’ added Atkins before he crawled out of the crater to link up with Alf Conner.
***
Like most things unwanted, the end of the artillery barrage came without consideration or introduction; the seconds after its cessation were like hours. The silence was debilitating for the men, as it signalled the beginning of the real battle—the fight with enemy soldiers. Tom Baker and David Smith screamed as though they would breathe fire and charged for the enemy front line. Joseph Finch stood hesitantly and moved forward. He cart-wheeled backwards to lie at the bottom of the crater—shot by a German sniper. The bullet removed half of his face. Clarence stared, frozen to the spot. His body and mind wanted to rebel at the unrelenting violence.
‘Move forward man, or I will shoot you where you lie,’ screamed Lieutenant Sharp. The officer moved up from behind. His tirade was aimed at Clarence as he sat motionless, mesmerised by what was once Birdie Finch.
‘Move, Private, or so help me!’ roared the lieutenant. Clarence turned his head towards the lieutenant; his mouth gaped like he was ready to receive Communion. Clarrie watched, detached, as the lieutenant drew his revolver.’
The hand-gun fired, and Clarence was snapped from his trance. He scrambled from the crater and ran with his rifle out in front. The lieutenant’s tirade still rung in his ears.
For the 14th Brigade, and the 8th to their left, the artillery barrage had taken some effect. The German soldiers, bar a few resolute and courageous men, had left their posts for the safety of the underground shelters. As they attempted to return to their guns, the Germans were surprised by the Australians, and were unable to fire weapons from their designated positions. Hellish hand-to-hand fighting ensued.
Clarence flung himself over the parapet and into the German front line trench. His blood raced after he was driven forward by Lieutenant Sharp. Men fought, locked chest-to-chest, hands on throats, or clenched onto wrists. They struggled to hold off the hand that held a sharpened knife, which threatened to end their life. The scene that greeted Private Miller was war in all its frenzied madness. Military objectives forgotten, it was brutal in its simplicity; kill the enemy before he kills you.
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