On the night of 30 November to 1 December, we were put on lorries. In the process, we took our first losses, as a soldier dropped a hand-grenade which for some reason exploded, gravely injuring him and another man. Someone else feigned insanity in an attempt to get out of the battle. After a lot of toing and froing, a buffet in the ribs from an NCO seemed to sort him out, and we were able to go. It showed me that that sort of play-acting is difficult to keep up.
We drove, squashed together, almost as far as Baralle, where we were made to stand for hours in a ditch and wait for orders. In spite of the cold, I lay down in a meadow and slept till dawn. Since we had been prepared for the attack, it came as something of a disappointment to learn that the 225th, whom we were to support, had decided to go it alone. We were to stay in readiness in the castle grounds of Baralle.
At nine o’clock in the morning our artillery began a powerful pounding, which from quarter to twelve to ten to twelve achieved the intensity of drumfire. The woods of Bourlon, which were not even under direct attack as they were too heavily defended, simply vanished in a chartreuse fog of gas. At ten to twelve we observed through our binoculars lines of riflemen emerging on to the empty crater landscape, while in the rear the batteries were harnessed up and rushed forward to new positions. A German aeroplane brought down a British barrage balloon in flames; we saw the occupants parachute clear. The fact that he circled round them as they drifted through the air, and fired tracer rounds at them, was further evidence of the growing bitterness of the conflict.
After following the progress of the attack avidly from the elevation of the castle grounds, we emptied a dixie of noodles and lay down for a nap on the frozen ground.
At three o’clock we received orders to advance as far as the regimental HQ, which was situated in the lock-chamber of a drained canal bed. We went there by platoons, through a feeble scattered fire. From there the 7th and 8 th were sent forward to the officer commanding the troops in reserve, to relieve two companies of the 225th. The five hundred yards of canal that were to be got through lay under a dense barrage. We got there by running in a tight mass, without sustaining any losses. Numerous corpses showed that other companies had been made to suffer heavily. Reserves were squeezed up against the banks, busily trying to dig foxholes in the canal walls. As all the places were taken, and the canal, as a landmark, was a magnet for artillery fire, I led my company to a crater field to the right of it, and left it up to each individual to settle down as they liked. A splinter jangled against my bayonet. Together with Tebbe, who had followed our example with his 8th Company, I looked out a suitable crater, which we covered with a tarpaulin. We lit a candle, ate supper, smoked our pipes, and had a shivering conversation. Tebbe, who even in these insalubrious surroundings always remained something of a dandy, was telling me some long and involved story about a girl who had sat for him once in Rome.
At eleven o’clock, I received orders to advance into the erstwhile front line, and report to the commander of the fighting troops. I gathered up my men and moved forward. Mighty shells were falling only singly now, but then one promptly smashed down at our feet like a greeting from hell, and filled the canal bed with dark smoke. The men fell silent, as if an icy fist had them by the neck, and stumbled along over barbed wire and debris in my wake. It is an eerie feeling to be striding through an unknown position by night, even when the shelling isn’t particularly strong; your eyes and ears are subject to all sorts of deceptions. Everything feels cold and alien as in some cursed other world.
At last, we found the spot where the front line met the canal, and wended our way through the crowded trenches to the battalion headquarters. I stepped in, and found a bunch of officers and orderlies standing around in an atmosphere one could have cut with a knife. Then I learned that the attack had not prospered so far, and was to be taken up again in the morning. The feeling in the room was rather doomy. A couple of battalion commanders started on lengthy negotiations with their adjutants. From time to time special weapons’ officers tossed an item into the conversation from the height of their bunks, which were swarming like hen-roosts. The cigar smoke was dense.
Servants tried to cut bread for their officers in the middle of the bustle; a wounded man charged in, and caused pandemonium by announcing an enemy hand-grenade attack.
Finally, I was able to take down my orders for the attack. At six o’clock in the morning we were to roll up Dragon Alley and as much as possible of the Siegfried Line. The two battalions of the regiment in the line were to commence attacking on our right at seven o’clock. The discrepancy in times made me suspect that our high-ups didn’t quite trust this attack, and were giving us the role of guinea-pigs. I objected to the two-phase attack, and our time was duly commuted to seven o’clock. The next morning was to show what a difference that made.
Since I had absolutely no idea where Dragon Alley was, I asked tor a map as I was leaving, but was told they had none to spare. I drew my own conclusions, and went out into the fresh air. Other commanders don’t often give strange units a cushy time.
After I’d spent a long time wandering around the position with my heavily laden soldiers, one man spotted a sign with the half-effaced writing ‘Dragon Alley’ on a small sap going forward, which was blocked off by knife-rests. When I went down there, after a few steps, I heard the sound of foreign voices. Silently I crept back. It was evident that I had encountered the spearhead of the British attack, either through overconfidence or, in ignorance of where they were, behaving incautiously. I had the sap blocked off right away by a platoon.
Right next to Dragon Alley was an enormous hole in the ground that I took to be a tank-trap, and there I had the whole company assemble, to explain our orders, and to give the different platoons their places. While speaking, I was several times interrupted by small shells. Once, a dud even plummeted into the back wall of the hole. I was standing up on the rim, and, with every explosion, I could see the steel helmets assembled below me perform a deep and synchronous bow in the moonlight.
In case of the possibility of us all being wiped out by a chance hit, I sent the first and second platoons back into the trench, and settled myself into the pit with the third. Men from another unit, which had been roughed up on Dragon Alley that morning, had a worrying impact on my men, telling them that an English machine-gun fifty yards away was an insurmountable obstacle across the trench. We decided therefore, at the first sign of resistance, to fan out left and right and make a concerted bombing attack.
The endless night hours I spent huddled up against Lieutenant Hopf in a hole in the ground. At six o’clock I got up and, with the curious feeling that precedes any attack, settled a last few details. You have butterflies in the stomach as you talk to the platoon commanders, try to make jokes, run around as if you were facing a parade in front of the commander-in-chief; in a word, you try and make yourself as busy as possible, to avoid any troubling thoughts. A soldier offered me a mug of coffee that he’d warmed up on a paraffin stove, and that had a magical effect on me, spreading warmth and confidence throughout my body.
On the dot of seven, we drew up in the determined order in a long, snaking line. We found Dragon Alley untenanted; a row of empty ammunitions drums behind a barricade attested to the fact that the notorious machine-gun had been withdrawn. That cheered us up no end. After I’d blocked off a well-constructed trench that led off to the right, we entered a defile. It slowly climbed, and before long we found ourselves on the open field just as day was breaking. We turned about and tried the trench off to the right, where we found plenty of signs of yesterday’s failed attack. The ground was littered with British corpses and hardware. This was the Siegfried Line. Suddenly, the leader of the shock troops, Lieutenant Hoppenrath, seized the rifle from one of his soldiers, and fired. He had encountered a British sentry, who threw a few hand-grenades and then took to his heels. We went on, and soon encountered further resistance. Hand-grenades were thrown by both sides, and exploded with loud bangs. The shock troops attacked. Bombs were passed from hand to hand; snipers took up position behind traverses to deal with the enemy throwers; the platoon commanders peered over the edge of the trench to see if a counter-attack might be coming; and the light machine-gun units set up their weapons in suitable places. We attacked the trench from the front with grenades, and covered its length with our rifles. Things now started to perk up all around, and swarms of bullets crossed over our heads.