72
THE YPRES TIMES
It is twilight, the second night, once again I get practically no sleepI receive
orders from the Regiment to get in touch with the troops in front. Lieut. Bloem
with three comrades must go out into the night, into that horror, whilst on his hard
wire bed lies a father, his heart beating with anxiety. After two hours Walter's
first messages come through: a note scribbled with difficulty; he has reached
the headquarters of the 109th Grenadier Regiment of the 28th Division which is
fighting forwards. The English second line, defended with tenacity, is expected
to fall during the night. In the early morning the boy returns, dirty and proud.
I send him to Regimental Headquarters, where he is much praised.
On the morning of the 23rd of March comes the order to advance. We march
through no man's land," dotted with dead comrades. We climb over the English
front linein the trenches the splendid defenders lie outstretched, killed by gas.
Years later I saw their ghosts brought back to life again by sublime art in
Sherriff's wonderful war drama, Journey's End."
We march on through the wretched ruins of what once were villages; the
signs of battle become ever ghastlier, ever thicker the dead; we cross the English
second line. Here not gas has murdered but bullet, hand grenade, and bayonet.
In front of us the ground rises, and over the crest appears the top of March
brown Holnon Wood, and on the left the ruins of St. Quentin still guide us,
with the accusing bulk of its magnificent Cathedral, which even before the war
was called La grande délabreuse," the grand ruin. From the edge of the hill
the shells of our advanced infantry guns speed forward just above our heads
our foremost troops are fighting for the English third position; the defended
forest is checking them seriously. Again I get the order to gain touch with our
front line, again Lieut. Bloem with his three men must advance into the hail of
bullets whilst the Battalion lies glued to the ground, only obtaining tolerable
cover from the upward slope. Our 1st Battalion, on our right, has already been
thrown in to reinforce the badly cut-up division fighting in front. Whizz, whizz,
the bullets spurt and splutter over the crest, Heads down, boys." From over
the hill straight towards us stagger two soldiers carrying a heavily laden bivouac
sheet, in front of which dangle a pair of officer's bootsmy boy's? Thank God,
noCount Kessler, a subaltern in our sister Regiment, the 52nd. Only a week
ago, he, my son and I were sitting drinking coffee together in peaceful Binche,
the two youngsters spending the last of their pay on quantities of cakes. Is
he dead?" Not yet, sir, butIt is all over, all over.
A report from the boy. A Dithyrambus. He has been able to watch through
field-glasses the storming of Holnon Wood a few hundred metres away. The
wording, quite unmilitary, it was not the Lieutenant who wrote it, but the
budding poet: Infantry which can storm like this are unconquerable." Without
a doubt Holnon Wood is ours. The hurrahs and the noise of battle have grown
silent, the firing has ceased. I send the report on to the Regiment and earn again
some more praise for my orderly officer. The order: forward, direction south
east corner of the Wood. I deploy the Battalion; quite unopposed we pass
obliquely over the crest. Before us is a wide plain, on the right the captured Wood
confronts us, full of mystery; not a shot. We march quietly on. Suddenly
infantry and machine-gun fire opens from the leftIn a group of trees the glasses
discover in the bare branches peculiar shadows like enormous birds-nests. Ah, ah
some Tommies have ensconced themselves as snipers. I order my leading company
to take up a position and open fire. I look round for cover for my headquarters,
which I establish in a 4.2 cm. crater. From here I can comfortably direct the
action." I ask my firing company "What range?" "600, sir." "Aim care
fully, you must finish off those rascals." Good Lord! the Grenadiers of 1918 do
not shoot like those of 1914, especially at long ranges; practically all they know
