That was where, while inspecting my sentries, I ran into Sergeant-Major Hackmann and a few men from the 7th; they were just about to go out on patrol. Even though I wasn’t supposed to leave the outpost, I decided to join them for the hell of it.
Adopting a type of movement of my own devising (of which more later), we had crossed two entanglements, and crested the hill, strangely without encountering any sentries, when we heard the sounds of the British digging to the right and left of us. Later on, I realized that the enemy must have withdrawn his sentries to have them out of the way for the ambush I will go on to describe.
The movement that I alluded to a moment ago consisted in letting members of a patrol go forward one at a time when there was a chance that we might encounter the enemy at any moment. So there was never more than one man in front, taking it in turn to risk being the one shot by a hidden sentry, while the others were all at his back ready to lend support at a moment’s notice. I took my turn with the rest, even though my presence with the rest of the patrol might have mattered more; but there is more to war than such tactical considerations.
We crawled around several digging parties, as there were unfortunately large wire obstacles between them and ourselves. After quickly rejecting the rather eccentric sergeant-major’s suggestion that he might pretend to be a deserter, and keep the enemy distracted until we had gone around the first enemy sentries, we crept back to the outpost.
There is something stimulating about such excursions; the heart beats a little faster, and one is bombarded by fresh ideas. I resolved to dream away the mild night, and rigged up a nest for myself in the tall grass on the slope, lining it with my coat. Then I lit my pipe as discreetly as I could, and drifted off on the wings of my imagination.
In the middle of my ‘pipe dreams’, I was startled by a distinct rustling coming from the woods and the meadow. In the presence of the enemy, one’s senses are always on the qui vive, and it’s a strange thing that one can feel sure, even on the basis of rather ordinary sounds: This is it!
Straight away the nearest sentry came rushing up to me: ‘Lieutenant, sir, there are seventy British soldiers advancing on the edge of the wood!’
Though somewhat surprised at such a precise count, I hid in the tall grass on the slope, along with four riflemen, to wait and see what happened next. A few seconds later, I saw a group of men flitting across the meadow. As my men levelled their rifles at them, I called down a soft: ‘Who goes there?’ It was NCO Teilengerdes, an experienced warrior from the 2nd, collecting up his excited unit.
The other units quickly arrived. I had them form into a line stretching from the slope to the wood. A minute later, they were standing ready, with fixed bayonets. It couldn’t hurt to check the alignment; in such situations, you can’t be too pedantic. As I was upbraiding a man who was standing a little back, he replied: ‘I’m a stretcher-bearer, sir.’ He had his own rules to follow. Relieved, I ordered the men to advance.
As we strode across the strip of meadow, a hail of shrapnel flew over our heads. The enemy was laying down a dense fire in an attempt to disrupt our communications. Involuntarily, we slipped into a jogtrot, to reach the lee of the hill in front of us.
Suddenly, a dark form arose out of the grass. I tore off a hand-grenade and hurled it in the direction of the figure, with a shout. To my consternation, I saw by the flash of the explosion that it was Teilengerdes, who, unnoticed by me, had somehow run on ahead, and tripped over a wire. Fortunately, he was unhurt. Simultaneously, we heard the sharper reports of British grenades, and the shrapnel fire became unpleasantly concentrated.
Our line melted away, in the direction of the steep slope, which was experiencing heavy fire, while Teilengerdes and I and three men stayed put. Suddenly one of them jogged me: ‘Look, the British!’
Like a vision in a dream, the sight, lit only by falling sparks, of a double line of kneeling figures at the instant in which they rose to advance, etched itself into my eye. I could clearly make out the figure of an officer on the right of the line, giving the command to advance. Friend and foe were paralysed by this sudden, unexpected meeting. Then we turned to flee – the only thing we could do – the enemy, it seemed, still too paralysed to fire at us.
We leaped up and ran towards the slope. Even though I tripped over a wire laid treacherously in the tall grass and flew head over heels, I made it safely, and ordered my excited troops into a compressed line.
Our situation was now such that we were sitting under the bowl of fire, as under a tightly woven basket. What appeared to have happened was that in our advance we had disturbed the enemy’s flanking manoeuvre. We were at the foot of the slope, on a somewhat worn path. The wheel-ruts were enough to afford us some minimal protection against their rifles, because one’s instinctive response to danger is to press oneself as close as possible to mother earth. We kept our guns pointed at the wood, which meant that the British lines were behind us. This one circumstance unsettled me more than anything that might be going on in the wood, so, during the ensuing action, I took care to send occasional lookouts up the slope.
Suddenly the shelling ceased; we needed to steel ourselves for an attack. No sooner had our ears grown used to the surprising silence, than sounds of crackling and rustling were heard coming from the wood.
‘Halt! Who goes there? Password!’
We must have shouted for about five minutes, including the old 1st Battalion watchword ‘Luttje Lage’ – an expression for beer and a short, familiar to all Hanoverians; but all we got back was a muddle of voices. Finally I decided to give the order to shoot, even though there were some of us who felt certain they had heard some words of German. My twenty rifles discharged their bullets into the wood, bolts rattled, and soon we heard the wailing of wounded from the brush. I had an uneasy feeling, because I thought it was within the bounds of possibility that we were firing at a detachment sent to help us.
I was relieved, therefore, to see little yellow tongues of flame flash back, although they soon stopped. One man was hit in the shoulder, and the stretcher-bearer tended to him.
‘Hold your fire!’
Slowly the order took effect, and the shooting stopped. The tension in any case had been broken by our taking some action. Further calls for the password. I scraped together what little English I had, and shouted a few (I hoped, persuasive) words of encouragement: ‘Come here, you are prisoners, hands up!’
Thereupon, more confused shouting, which sounded to us like the German word
‘Rache, Rache!’ [‘Revenge, revenge!’]. A single man emerged from the edge of the wood and came towards us. One of the men made the mistake of shouting ‘Password!’ to him, causing him to stop irresolutely and turn back. Obviously a scout.
‘Shoot him down!’
A volley of a dozen shots; the figure subsided into the tall grass.
The little episode filled us with satisfaction. From the edge of the wood, once more there was the strange jabbering; it sounded as though the attackers were encouraging one another to advance against the mysterious defenders.
We stared intently at the dark line of wood. It began to get light, and a thin morning fog rose off the meadow.
Then we saw something that was a rarity in this war of long-range weapons. Out of the dark brush, a line of figures emerged and stepped on to the open meadow. Five, ten, fifteen, a whole line. Trembling fingers took off safety-catches. A distance of fifty yards, thirty, fifteen… Fire! The rifles barked for several minutes. Sparks flew as spurts of lead struck weapons and steel helmets.
Suddenly a shout: ‘Watch out, left!’ A mob of attackers was running towards us from the left, headed by an enormous figure with an outstretched revolver, and swinging a white club.