the whooshing and crackling sound of a flamethrower. It was the first I’d ever seen or heard of these weapons and it belched a dripping, greasy, terrifying blast of liquid fire out to a distance of forty yards. This new flame device scorched across a part of Number Two Section’s trench before its operator was riddled by a long stream of bullets from one of our Lewis guns. The German soldier fell and his weapon shot a huge oily black tongue of smoke and liquid fire along the front of our wire, horribly burning several of his own men. My throat was dry and my heart furiously pumped blood through every fibre of my body.
Impossibly, the Germans in succeeding ranks continued to charge toward us. My men threw a second volley of Mills bombs into the screaming desperate men clawing at our wire. The blast from our grenades was so close it seared our faces and black dirt showered on top of us. In a last desperate effort to kill us, Germans who had gone to ground threw their potato masher hand grenades at us, but in most cases they hit the wire and bounced back at them. I remember seeing Mullin picking one potato masher grenade up and throwing it back when it landed near us. No sooner had one German soldier been shot down before us than another grey figure in a spiked pickelhaube helmet loomed behind him.
By that time, I no longer tried to control the fight. It didn’t matter anyway, no one was listening, each of us was consumed in our own private struggle for survival. I seized a rifle from one of the grenadiers. I don’t know how long I fired and reloaded and fired again into those grey shapes. Some time after, it seemed that what was left of the German line in front of us began to melt into the ground. One second they were within a few feet of us and the next, scattered grey figures were fleeing across no man’s land. Our machine-guns continued to fire upon them.
For an instant, I was filled with a strange sense of admiration for these men who seconds before had tried so spiritedly to kill us. I remember it vividly, I was seized by the noble sentiment that it was a shame to kill such men and in my innocence I shouted, “Cease fire! Stop!” Again the order was passed down the line and our trench went quiet.
It was then that Sergeant Ferguson gently grabbed me by the elbow and spoke quietly in his Highland burr. “No sir. The ones we don’t get now – they’ll be back to finish us in an hour.” My scruples melted. My decision was instant. “Vickers and Lewis guns go on, rapid fire!”
I’ve often considered that moment. God forbid, that I should ever have to relive that time, but I’d make the same choice again. The second push that day was upon us in a matter of hours.
When the shooting stopped, I expected a kind of tranquillity to come over the line, but as things died down across no man’s land, our trenches were a flurry of activity. Our field telephone had ceased working soon after the barrage started and I sent a runner to report our situation and establish contact with company headquarters. I sent two others to establish contact with the platoons on either side of us. We were taught that when the firing stops, officers should begin redistributing ammunition, repair defences, and oversee the care of the wounded. In our field service training pamphlets, this description sounded so efficient, so neat and rational. It wasn’t. I remember the lull in the fighting as an exhausting and difficult time, punctuated with decisions I was not psychologically prepared to make.
I wasn’t overcome by conscience, grief, or even revulsion with the slaughter that I had just participated in – that was all to come later – but I was assailed by conflicting emotions. The soldier in me told me to ready ourselves for the next phase of the battle. What was left of Rory Ferrall within me wanted to devote his energy to helping the wounded. As the firing died down, the cries of the wounded increased in intensity and it took an unnatural act of the will to ignore them. The soldier in me prevailed.
In accordance with my training, I knew that if we couldn’t repel the next assault, none of us, wounded or fit, would live. I posted sentries on the Lewis and Vickers guns and supervised the redistribution of ammunition. Much as I wanted to tend to the wounded, my most pressing concern was the redistribution of our remaining ammunition as quickly as possible. If we were attacked in the state we were in, we would have been easily overrun. The ammunition for both Lewis gun teams was exhausted and my right-hand section had thrown all their Mills bombs. It was clear to me that despite inflicting fantastic casualties on the enemy, our situation was a great deal worse now than it had been an hour before. There was little ammunition and no hope of immediate re-supply. The Loop was such an exposed position that no one was going to be able to get anything up to us before dark. I made a quick calculation and concluded that if the Germans attacked again before nightfall, we would be able to fire at a rapid rate for no more than four minutes. I kept that conclusion to myself. It wasn’t information anyone else could use and it would spook the platoon. When what was left of our ammunition was redistributed, I turned my attentions to the wounded.
In the few minutes available to me, I scrambled up and down our sector of the Loop and counted seven dead and eleven wounded. Half the casualties came from Three Section on the right flank. I re-shuffled men from both One and Two sections. Four Section, I left intact. Men were on their knees applying tourniquets and field dressings to our casualties.
It was then I realized I had to make another unpleasant life-or-death decision. I had six vials of morphine entrusted to my care and there were eleven men with serious wounds. Everyone in the platoon knew I had the morphine. Within an hour, once the initial localized shock wore off, every one of those eleven men would be in agony and each of them would desperately need one of those vials. Instead of making a decision on the spot, I chose to wait. I had no idea how long we would be isolated out on the Loop and never having administered the drug before, I wasn’t certain how long the effects of a single shot of morphine would last on a man. What I knew for sure was I didn’t have enough to go around. I trusted to my instincts, hoping the decision would become self-evident.
Perhaps I should have explained my reasoning to the troops; but that morning, I didn’t think I had time. I’m sure that to the men I must have seemed bloody-minded and pig-headed when I said rather bluntly that morphine would be distributed to the most needy in an hour. To have issued the morphine then would have relieved some of the suffering instantly. To my thinking, waiting until the first effects of shock wore off would ensure the least amount of suffering. From the resentful looks of some of my soldiers, I knew the decision wasn’t well received or well understood.
With the casualties put under cover, I called the NCOs to my sector of the trench and explained the situation as best I could. With seven of them standing in the trench, I thought they were a representative cross-section of how the regiment had grown. Half of them were British-born originals, half were Canadians. All of them were tired and apprehensive. They stood nonchalantly, smoking cigarettes and pipes, rifles slung over their soldiers almost as if we were on an exercise. I imitated the kind of thing I heard on training. “The entire platoon has done bloody well and you should be proud of yourselves. The leadership in the sections is first rate and we wouldn’t have lasted out there without your efforts. Well done.”
I looked around at their faces and was surprised to see looks of satisfaction. I continued. “I’ve no new intelligence, but I can tell you that we’re going to stay put here for a while yet. With the approaches to the company position being so exposed, don’t let anyone get any false hopes about being relieved, re-supplied, or our casualties evacuated before dark. Our only way out of here is to hang on and drive Fritz back the next time he tries to push us off this ground. To that end, I want to see really tight fire control. Make every round count. I don’t think I have time to speak to each of the men individually, but I want you to go back and explain how things stand to them. If I can, I’ll be around this afternoon.”
It was then I tried to fix things with the morphine. My voice went to a stage whisper. “Tell the men – and when you do this, make sure you’re out of earshot of the wounded – there are only six vials of morphine and there won’t be any more. I’ll personally tell the wounded that we’ll do everything possible to get them out tonight. I’m going to go around now and give morphine to the
