Mauser Ridge - April 26, 1915
We fix bayonets. The order has come down. There is a mix of trepidation and excitement as we prepare. The pre dawn quiet is disturbed as men take formation. I look up and down the ranks. Not a word is spoken. George holds out his arm. Alex and I grab it with one hand and each other’s wrist with the other. We are ready. We wait.The first light of day reveals a blanket of mist that covers the scared ground. At various intervals slivers of mist begin to rise. It will be warm today. “Why haven’t we gone?” I ask myself. Clearly visible, 500 yards on, is the target. The cover of darkness is lost. We wait.
Sporadic bursts of gunfire from afar break the relative silence. This is our cue. In perfect formation — twenty yards between ranks, thirty yards between waves — we appear above the parapets. In perfect insanity we advance.
One hundred yards on. The formations hold tight. We don’t think; we follow.
Two hundred yards on. I glance over at Alex, then George. Their gaze is fixed ahead. We are ten men deep in the second wave.
Two hundred and fifty yards on. The gates of hell open. The roar of machine gun fire fills the air. It is deafening. I watch as the first row of men fall. Someone yells “Charge!” It is barely audible. We break formation and in chaos run forward. Something whistles past my ear. I hear a crack, like an axe through wood. A bullet has struck the soldier beside me in the head. He drops instantly. He is lucky.
Bullets rain thick and steady. Further on I see a soldier lying on the ground. His torso is ripped open. In desperate panic he claws at anything nearby. He is trying to stuff his intestines back in. I jump over him. There is nothing I can do. Still further a soldier crawls on his elbows. His expression is frenzied. He is searching for his legs. I go around him. There is nothing I can do.
The mass of bodies ahead stalls our advance. We dig in; we have come too far to retreat.
I see Alex dive into an old shell hole. I follow. I lie flat on my back and for a brief moment close my eyes. I open them to see Alex crawl out again. “Alex! Wait!” I yell. He grabs a fallen soldier by the shoulders and drags him into the shell hole. It is George. He has been hit in the throat. I crawl over. George looks at me. His eyes are wide and frantic — full of fear. Alex tends to him; I cannot. I turn away. The machine gun fire subsides. Screams for help and mother rise above all. I cannot bear it. I cover my ears.
* * * * *
The sun is high in the sky. The shrieks of agony have long since waned. Only labored moans and the occasional futile cry for the medic remain. It is hot. My uniform is soaked with sweat. Our only hope is darkness. We wait.
Alex is lying on his back. He has George’s head propped up on his shoulder. He presses a makeshift bandage against George’s neck with one hand and strokes George’s forehead with the other. I crawl over. George doesn’t notice me. I hear the gurgling he makes as he breathes through the hole in his throat. His eyes stare blankly upwards; the fear in them has turned to sadness. I move closer.
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out of here,” says Alex. I have heard him say this twenty times in the past hour. George tries to smile, but can only wince. He reaches into his breast pocket and removes a photograph. He studies it for awhile then places it against his lips. Tears well in the corners of his eyes. He coughs. The gurgling stops.
* * * * *
The last rays of sunlight fall to the west. I tap Alex on the shoulder. It is time to go. I lift my head above the shell hole and scan the surroundings — all is clear. I nod to Alex. He throws George’s arms around his neck. I go to help. Our trench is 300 yards away. We must be quick.
We drag George’s lifeless body along, each of us to an arm. We see movement ahead, a single shadow approaches. We drop to the ground. The shadow advances and begins to take form. We wait for confirmation. It is German. Alex reaches for his rifle. The German sees us. Alex rises, pulls the rifle to his cheek and squeezes the trigger. Silence. His rifle has jammed. The German fires. Alex is hit in the stomach. He recoils and instinctively grabs at the wound. “Arthur!” he cries.