We crawled towards a gap in the enemy wires, which Kloppmann had cut the night before. We were unpleasantly surprised, then, to find it had been patched up; therefore we cut it again, rather noisily, and climbed down into the trench. After lurking for a long time behind the nearest traverse, we crept on, following a telephone wire to its end in a bayonet stuck in the ground. We found the position blocked off several times by wire, and once by a heavy gate, but all of it unoccupied. After taking a good look at it all, we went back the same way, and patched the wire to conceal the fact that we’d been.
The following evening, Kloppmann went snuffling around the place again, only this time to be received by rifle fire and those lemon-shaped hand-grenades also known as ‘duck’s eggs’, one of which landed perilously close to his head as he pressed it into the ground, but failed to detonate. He needed to show a turn of speed. The evening after, we were both out there again, and found the front trench occupied. We listened to the sentries and identified their positions. One of them was whistling a pretty tune. At last, they started firing at us and we crept back.
When I was back in the trench, my comrades Voigt and Haver-kamp suddenly appeared. They had obviously been celebrating, and had had the bizarre idea of leaving our cosy reserve camp behind, walking through the pitch-black wood to the front line and, as they said, go on patrol. It’s always been a principle of mine that a man should be responsible for himself, and so I let them climb out of the trench, even though our opponents were still agitated about something. Their patrol, admittedly, consisted of nothing beyond looking for the silk parachutes of French rockets, and swinging these about their heads, chasing one another back and forth under the enemy’s noses. Of course, they were fired at, but after a long time they returned happily enough. Bacchus looks after his own.
On 10 September, I went from the reserve camp to regimental headquarters to ask for leave. ‘You’ve been on my mind,’ the colonel gave back, ‘but the regiment needs to embark on some clearing action, and I want to entrust that to you. Pick a few men, and go and practise with them in the Souslceuvre camp.’
We were to enter the enemy trench in two places and try to take prisoners. The patrol was divided into three, a couple of storm units and one detachment that was to sit in the enemy trench and guard our rear. I was in overall command, and led the left-hand group, the right I entrusted to Lieutenant von Kienitz.
When I called for volunteers, to my surprise – it was, after all, late in 1917 – about three fourths of the men in all companies of the battalion stepped forward. I chose the participants in my wonted way, passing them in review, and choosing the ‘good faces’.
A few of those that didn’t make it were almost in tears over their rejection. Myself included, my party consisted of fourteen men, including Ensign von Zglinitzky, the NCOs Kloppmann, Mevius, Duje-siefken, and a couple of pioneers. All the free spirits of the 2nd Battalion were there.
For ten days, we practised throwing hand-grenades, and rehearsed the undertaking on a piece of trench that was made in the image of the original. It was astonishing that with so much realism, I only had three men hurt by splinters. We were excused all other duties, so that on 22 September when I returned to the company position for the night,
I was in charge of a semi-wild but useful band of men.
In the evening, Kienitz and I walked through the wood to the regimental headquarters, where Captain Schumacher had invited us for a farewell dinner. Then we lay down in our dugouts for a few hours’ rest. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that the next day you’ll be risking your life, and before falling asleep you examine your conscience.
At three in the morning we were woken, got up, washed, and had breakfast prepared for us. I had a scene right away with my servant, who had used too much salt and ruined the fried eggs I had ordered especially to give me strength for the occasion; not a good beginning.
We pushed away our plates and went over all the possible contingencies. We passed around the cherry brandy, and Kienitz told us some fine old jokes. At twenty to five, we gathered up the men and led them to the jumping-off point in the firing trench. Gaps had already been cut in the wire, and long arrows whitened with lime pointed us to our objectives. We said goodbye with a handshake and waited for whatever was to pass.
I had got together some kit appropriate to the sort of work I meant to be doing: across my chest, two sandbags, each containing four stick-bombs, impact fuses on the left, delay on the right, in my right tunic pocket an 08 revolver on a long cord, in my right trouser pocket a little Mauser pistol, in my left tunic pocket five egg hand-grenades, in the left trouser pocket luminous compass and whistle, in my belt spring hooks for pulling out the pins, plus bowie knife and wire-cutters. In my inside tunic pocket I carried a full wallet with my home address, in my right back pocket, a flat flask of cherry brandy. We had removed shoulder straps and Gibraltar badges, so as to give our opponents no clue as to our regiment. For identification, we had a white band round each arm.
At four minutes to five, the division on our left started a little diversionary fire. On the dot of five, the sky opened up behind our front, and the shells arced and whooshed over our heads. I stood with Kloppmann outside the dugout, smoking one last cigar; then, because a number of the shells were falling short, we were forced to take cover within. Watch in hand, we counted off the minutes.
At precisely five past five, we were out of the dugout and on to the prepared paths through the enemy wires. I ran ahead, a hand-grenade in my raised hand, and saw the right-hand party rushing out through the first glimmer of dawn. The enemy entanglement was feeble; I cleared it in a couple of bounds, then stumbled over a trip-wire and plunged into a crater from which Kloppmann and Mevius had to pull me out.
‘In!’ We leaped into the first trench, encountering no resistance, while to our right we heard the crash of a hand-grenade battle commence. Paying no attention to it, we crossed a line of sandbags, ducked into more craters, and surfaced again in front of a line of knife-rests in the second line. Since that too was completely shot up, and offered no prospect of prisoners, we hurried on along a communication trench. Finding it blocked, I first sent our pioneers forward to deal with it; but then, as they seemed to be making no progress, I took up a pickaxe myself. This was no time for fiddling about.
As we entered the third trench, we made a discovery that gave us pause: a burning cigarette end on the ground told us the enemy were in the immediate vicinity. I made a sign to my men, clutched my grenade a little harder, and crept through well-constructed trenches, with many rifles leaning against their walls. In situations like this, your memory latches on to the tiniest thing. Here, it was the image – as in a dream – of a mess-tin with a spoon standing in it. In twenty minutes’ time, that piece of observation was to save my life.
Suddenly we saw shadowy figures disappear in front of us. We gave chase, and found ourselves in a dead end, with the entrance to a dugout in one wall. I stood there and called out: ‘Montez!’ A tossed-out hand-grenade was the only reply. Evidently, it was a timed fuse; I heard the little snap, and had time to leap back. It tore out part of the opposite wall at head height, ripped my silk cap, gave me several lacerations on my left hand, and took off the tip of the little finger. The pioneer officer next to me had his nose pierced. We took a few steps back, and bombed the dangerous place with hand-grenades. One enthusiast threw in a smoke stick, thereby making any further attack on the place impossible. We doubled back, and followed the third line in the opposite direction, looking for enemy. Everywhere we saw discarded weapons and bits of equipment. The question, where were the owners of all these rifles and what did they have in mind for us, kept putting itself ever-more insistently, but with primed grenade and pistol at the ready, we went grimly on, ever deeper into the bare, gunpowdery trench.