Germans that every high explosive shell that hit the slope caused some casualties. Sometimes a number of shells would explode more or less together creating the impression of a large number of guns, and the German advance would falter, or even retreat.
The machine gunners on the ridge held their fire until the first of the German infantry was on the opposite downhill slope, and then they hosed them with lead.
These Germans were in an impossible position and most of them retreated quickly. But the German commander ordered them back and increased the number of troops.
Again the machine gunners waited until the attackers were concentrated on the opposite slope before they opened fire.
Many of the Germans retreated again, but a large number ran on through the furious hail of lead and down into the bottom of the gulch. They then had to struggle up the steep incline toward the gunners on the ridge, and the machine guns accounted for almost all of them. The few who made it to the ridge were exhausted and no match for the waiting British soldiery.
Despite the heat of the battle, Casca fired carefully, making every bullet count, and most of the Tommies did the same, conserving their scanty ammunition. Expert though they were with the bayonet, none of them wanted to be forced to use it.
As he shot each sweating German, Casca became more and more angry. The blind futility of their attack infuriated him.
"Dumb Kraut," he snarled as he squeezed off a shot that took off a German's helmet together with the top of his head. "Fuck off, Fritz," he shouted as another turned to run back down the slope. Finally, magazine empty, he got to his feet shouting, "Get off this hill, you useless, fucking idiots!"
And suddenly he was out of his hole, racing toward the handful of advancing Germans, the bayonet glinting at the end of his empty rifle.
His rage was contagious, and several men who were out of ammunition ran with him, and a number of them died, but his anger kept him moving until he was amongst the Germans, shooting, stabbing, and clubbing. Casca's bayonet ran red, and he was quickly drenched with blood. All around him Germans were lying in grotesque contortions as they tried to hold onto their spilling intestines.
In a matter of minutes the hill was cleared of Germans, and Casca and the surviving Tommies ran back to their holes.
Now that the British had exposed their position, Casca expected the German commander to call off the infantry and launch another bombardment with his abundant artillery.
Instead, the infantry kept coming.
"Yesterday's orders," George muttered to Casca as the waves of gray uniforms swept down the hill.
"Yeah," Casca agreed, "we're lucky their command structure is as rigid as ours."
"And maybe as misinformed, too," George said. "D'you know, whenever I get a chance to talk to any of our field officers, they don't want to hear what I have to say."
"I believe you," Casca replied, "but I don't understand it.''
He recognized that the war had become a struggle in attrition, but even on those terms, neither side's tactics made sense to him. It seemed that the only orders that either high command could think of were simply to charge directly into the enemy guns, as the Germans were now doing. Few of them got close enough to inflict any damage on the British defenders in spite of their scanty protection. And when the sun went down again, the Tommies were still in position.
The day's losses had been relatively light, and there were almost enough mules to carry all the badly wounded back to the hospital. But the armory wagons brought only some .303 ammunition, a few shells for the five-inch guns, and none for the Hotchkiss machine guns.
Casca made himself comfortable in the bottom of his foxhole, ignoring the cold and the continuing noise. But he could not ignore the thoughts that came crowding into his head. His mind seethed in a mutinous rage at the high command officers and their suicidal orders. He had now
The machine gunners on the ridge held their fire until the first of the German infantry was on the opposite downhill slope, and then they hosed them with lead.
These Germans were in an impossible position and most of them retreated quickly. But the German commander ordered them back and increased the number of troops.
Again the machine gunners waited until the attackers were concentrated on the opposite slope before they opened fire.
Many of the Germans retreated again, but a large number ran on through the furious hail of lead and down into the bottom of the gulch. They then had to struggle up the steep incline toward the gunners on the ridge, and the machine guns accounted for almost all of them. The few who made it to the ridge were exhausted and no match for the waiting British soldiery.
Despite the heat of the battle, Casca fired carefully, making every bullet count, and most of the Tommies did the same, conserving their scanty ammunition. Expert though they were with the bayonet, none of them wanted to be forced to use it.
As he shot each sweating German, Casca became more and more angry. The blind futility of their attack infuriated him.
"Dumb Kraut," he snarled as he squeezed off a shot that took off a German's helmet together with the top of his head. "Fuck off, Fritz," he shouted as another turned to run back down the slope. Finally, magazine empty, he got to his feet shouting, "Get off this hill, you useless, fucking idiots!"
And suddenly he was out of his hole, racing toward the handful of advancing Germans, the bayonet glinting at the end of his empty rifle.
His rage was contagious, and several men who were out of ammunition ran with him, and a number of them died, but his anger kept him moving until he was amongst the Germans, shooting, stabbing, and clubbing. Casca's bayonet ran red, and he was quickly drenched with blood. All around him Germans were lying in grotesque contortions as they tried to hold onto their spilling intestines.
In a matter of minutes the hill was cleared of Germans, and Casca and the surviving Tommies ran back to their holes.
Now that the British had exposed their position, Casca expected the German commander to call off the infantry and launch another bombardment with his abundant artillery.
Instead, the infantry kept coming.
"Yesterday's orders," George muttered to Casca as the waves of gray uniforms swept down the hill.
"Yeah," Casca agreed, "we're lucky their command structure is as rigid as ours."
"And maybe as misinformed, too," George said. "D'you know, whenever I get a chance to talk to any of our field officers, they don't want to hear what I have to say."
"I believe you," Casca replied, "but I don't understand it.''
He recognized that the war had become a struggle in attrition, but even on those terms, neither side's tactics made sense to him. It seemed that the only orders that either high command could think of were simply to charge directly into the enemy guns, as the Germans were now doing. Few of them got close enough to inflict any damage on the British defenders in spite of their scanty protection. And when the sun went down again, the Tommies were still in position.
The day's losses had been relatively light, and there were almost enough mules to carry all the badly wounded back to the hospital. But the armory wagons brought only some .303 ammunition, a few shells for the five-inch guns, and none for the Hotchkiss machine guns.
Casca made himself comfortable in the bottom of his foxhole, ignoring the cold and the continuing noise. But he could not ignore the thoughts that came crowding into his head. His mind seethed in a mutinous rage at the high command officers and their suicidal orders. He had now
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