Jack Martin and his comrades have been working to improve their new positions. So far he has noted that the rate of enemy fire on the Italian front compares very favorably to Flanders. So too does the view:
The sun was going down before our task was completed, and looking towards the mountains we saw their snow-covered sides glowing in a deep rose hue. It was wonderful and almost unbelievable. We ceased our work to look at it but it only lasted a few minutes. Gradually the depth of colour grew paler and finally faded away, leaving the mountains cold and grim.
It’s been a long time since we’ve heard from John Lucy, one time Irish Regular. The bulk of his book tells of his time in the ranks before the war, during the chaos of 1914, and the long and bloody adjustment to life in the New Army that characterized the experience of 1915. 1916 saw Lucy shell-shocked and mourning his brother, and the book–in which he strove for honesty but struggled to find a way to tell his story as anything other than an action-packed tale–drew towards its end. But by the spring of this year Lucy was back on duty and, as an experienced and relatively well-educated ranker, he was offered a commission. So it was as a lieutenant that he came back to France, and into the line in the autumn, and out toward a well-deserved rest… until the German counter-attack at Cambrai.
We were disappointed and annoyed at having to remedy the defeat of other units. The immediate order was to hold the shattered front at all cost…
They arrived in the line in the wee hours of this morning, a century back.
…our Colonial guide passed left into a branching trench. ‘Is this a communication trench?’ I asked . ‘No,’ he answered, ‘front line.’ Even in darkness I could see it was a rotten, hastily dug trench with a poor parapet and no fire-bays. I took over from a sergeant, who gave me very little information beyond the general direction of the enemy. He was undisguisedly wind-up, and his men were shaken. He complained: ‘They attack us every night, and come in, and take prisoners…’
I did not want my men to hear him. ‘Out of the way,’ I said, ‘and let my platoon in.’
Lucy discovers that the position is actually a section of the Hindenburg Line, captured by the British and now half-recaptured by the Germans.
At the dawn ‘Stand-to’ I prowled round near the block. On our side of it the big trench was a shambles. Freshly killed, mutilated bodies of Irish of another regiment were laid along the fire-step, and a hand of one protruding into the trench had all the fingers neatly sheared off as if by a razor blade. Beyond our block the Germans had built their own block, and from behind it they began to fire pineapples at us. Then British shrapnel burst over us, and we found ourselves getting a dose of morning hate from our own guns. ‘Good heavens,’ I said weakly, and I sat down.
I had the most depressing feeling of coming calamity…
They day brought a number of casualties, but for Lucy himself nothing worse than a painfully torn knee. As dusk fell, a German patrol approached, silhouetted by a bright moon, and he and his men gunned them down. Reporting this to headquarters, Lucy was summoned, then
given a drink, and ordered to fetch in any dead Germans. I objected, and there was a shocked silence among the headquarters staff.
After the C.O. declares that identifying the German patrol is worth the loss of six men, give or take, Lucy compromises by agreeing to go out whenever a convenient cloud obscures the moon.
It was two hours before we got a chance. I lagged behind the patrol as I could only make poor headway crawling on my bandaged knee. This was coupled with an entire lack of enthusiasm. My spirit had gone out somehow…
Lucy’s ill-starred, bright-mooned “epilogue” will continue tomorrow…