The troops attacking on the right took advantage of the distraction we provided and attacked the defile head-on, led by our still-intact 9th Company under the command of Lieutenant Gipkens. And now from every shell-hole figures poured forth, swinging rifles and chasing with a fearsome hurrah towards the enemy position, from where defenders emerged in great numbers. They started running away with their arms aloft, to escape the initial fury of the first wave of shock troops, in particular that of Lieutenant Gipkens’s orderly, who was rampaging like a berserker. I observed the confrontation, which took place just beyond our little earthworks, with rapt attention. Here I saw that any defender who continued to empty his pistol into the bodies of the attackers four or five paces away could not expect any mercy when they were upon him. The fighter, who sees a bloody mist in front of his eyes as he attacks, doesn’t want prisoners; he wants to kill.
The captured defile was lined with weapons, uniforms and supplies. Dotted all about were dead men in grey and brown uniforms, and groaning wounded. Soldiers from all different regiments were standing together in a thick knot, all shouting and chattering at once. Officers pointed out to them the continuation of the dip, and the heap of fighters, gradually, with surprising indifference, started moving forward again.
The dip ran up into higher ground, where enemy columns appeared. Occasionally stopping to shoot, we advanced until we were stopped by fierce fire. It was a sobering feeling, having the bullets smash into the ground round our heads. Kius, who had turned up again, picked up a flattened bullet that had stopped inches from his nose. At that instant, a man far to the left of us was hit on the helmet, and the ringing echoed throughout the dip. We took advantage of a momentary lull in the firing to scoot into one of the not very many shell-holes there were hereabouts. There I met up with the other surviving officers of our battalion again, which was now being commanded by Lieutenant Lindenberg, since Lieutenant von Solemacher had been fatally shot in the stomach during the storming of the embankment. On the right edge of the little valley, to the general amusement, Lieutenant Breyer – who had been seconded to us from the 10th Jagers – was strolling about seemingly oblivious of the flying bullets, walking-stick in hand, and long huntsman’s pipe in mouth, rifle slung over his shoulder, every bit as though out shooting rabbits.
We told each other quickly what we’d been through, and handed round canteens and bars of chocolate, then, ‘by popular demand’, we resumed our advance. The machine-guns, apparently under threat from the flank, had been withdrawn. We had probably taken two or three miles back already. The dip was now swarming with attackers. As far back as the eye could see, they were advancing in open order, ranks and columns. It was unfortunate that we were so densely packed; how many we left behind on the attack we luckily had no way of knowing.
Without meeting any resistance, we climbed to the top. To our right, khaki-clad figures were spilling out of a trench. We followed the example given us by Breyer, who, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, briefly stood still to loose off a round or two, and then marched on.
The heights were fortified by an unevenly distributed series of dugouts. They were not defended; probably our approach had gone unnoticed by the men in them. In some cases, clouds of smoke showed that they had already been flushed out, elsewhere it was the men themselves that emerged, pale and with their hands in the air. They were made to hand over canteens and cigarettes, then they were pointed to our rear, in which direction they vanished with some alacrity. One young British soldier had already surrendered to me when he suddenly turned round and disappeared back in his dugout. Then, as he stayed there, apparently ignoring my call to come out, we put an end to his dithering with a few hand-grenades, and went on. A narrow footpath disappeared over the crest of the hill. A signpost said it led to Vraucourt. While the others were still busy looking over the dugouts, I passed the crest of the hill, with Heins.
Down below lay the ruins of Vraucourt. In front of it we could see the flashing muzzles of an artillery battery whose men took flight as our first wave approached and they came under fire. The occupants of a row of dugouts along the side of the path also ran away. I encountered one such as he was just about to leave the last one. [A little gnomic, but I think we are to understand EJ shoots him. Hence, below, ‘my British soldier’. Earlier editions were much more explicit on this point and others similar.]
Along with a couple of men from my company who had hooked up with me, I proceeded down the path. To the right of it was a fortified line, from where we came under heavy fire. We retreated to the first of the dugouts, over which the bullets of both sides were soon flying back and forth. It looked as though it had been a base for messengers and bicyclists attached to the artillery. Outside it lay my British soldier, little more than a boy, who had been hit in the temple. He lay there, looking quite relaxed. I forced myself to look closely at him. It wasn’t a case of ‘you or me’ any more.
I often thought back on him; and more with the passing of the years. The state, which relieves us of our responsibility, cannot take away our remorse; and we must exercise it. Sorrow, regret, pursued me deep into my dreams.
Ignoring the crescendo of firing, we settled into the dugout, and helped ourselves to the supplies left behind, since our stomachs reminded us that we hadn’t eaten anything since the beginning of the attack. We found ham, white bread, jam and a stone jar of ginger beer. After I had fortified myself, I sat down on an empty biscuit case, and browsed in some English newspapers, all of them full of invective against ‘the Huns’. After a while, we got bored, and scampered back to the beginning of the path, where a large number of men had by now assembled. From up there, we could see a battalion of the 164th already up alongside Vraucourt to the left. We decided to storm the village, and hurried back down the path. Just outside the village, we were stopped by our own artillery, which was pounding the same spot over and over again. A heavy shell landed plumb on the path, and killed four of our men. The others ran back.
As I found out later, the artillery had been given orders to carry on firing at the furthest extent of their range. This incomprehensible order snatched the fruits of victory from our hands. Grinding our teeth with fury, we had to make a halt before the wall of fire.
To look for a chink, we moved right, where a company commander of the 76th Hanseatic Regiment was just giving orders for an attack on Vraucourt. We joined in with gusto, but no sooner had we got into the village than we once more found ourselves under fire from our own artillery. Three times we charged in, and three times we were forced back. Cursing, we set up in a few craters, where a grass fire that the shelling had started, and that took off many wounded men, was extraordinarily unpleasant. Also, English rifle bullets accounted for a few men, among them Corporal Grutzmacher from my own company.
Gradually, it got dark. Except for occasional flare-ups, the rifle fire gradually died down. The tired fighters looked for somewhere to lie down. Officers yelled their own names till they were hoarse, in an attempt to reassemble their companies.
In the course of the last hour, a dozen men of the 7th Company had grouped themselves round me. As it was starting to get cold, I led them back to the little dugout outside which my Englishman lay, and sent them out to find coats and blankets from the fallen. Once I had settled them all, I surrendered to my curiosity, and had a shufti at the artillery in the valley below. It was a bit of free enterprise, so I only took Fusilier Haller with me, who was adventurously inclined. Rifles at the ready, we strode down to the valley, which was still taking a pounding from our artillery, and began by inspecting a dugout that had apparently only recently been abandoned by British officers. On a table sat a huge gramophone, which Haller straight away set going. The cheery melody that purred off the roll had a ghostly effect on both of us. I threw the box on the ground where it scraped on a little longer, and then fell silent. The dugout was the height of luxury, even down to a little open fireplace with a mantelpiece with pipes and tobacco on it, and armchairs pulled round in a circle.