been fighting for more than a month, and as far as he could see, to no effect. Each day the two forces attacked each other as if they were all blind and stupid, even drunk. And like drunks, it seemed to Casca that they were fighting without any sensible purpose.
As he closed his eyes, he thought that the next day was going to be hell no matter what mistakes the German commander might continue to make.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning dawned bright and clear. And noisy as usual.
The German heavy guns were reaching for the Tommies, dug in on the ridge. The abrupt peak in the landscape made a difficult target, and most of the shells fell either short or long. Those that landed anywhere near the ridge, however, had a devastating effect on the poorly sheltered Tommies.
A dispatch runner had carried the news of the battle to headquarters and returned with orders for a frontal attack on the German position on the farther ridge.
"Sheer fucking lunacy," Lieutenant George fumed as he led his men into the doomed action.
Casca could only agree as he followed. They charged down the short slope, many falling now to the artillery shells that were exploding short of the ridge. The artillery fire continued the slaughter as they crossed the gulch, and then they struggled up the long slope toward the well-entrenched Germans.
The German machine guns opened fire, raking the hillside with lead and wiping out huge numbers of British soldiers. The numerous craters excavated the previous day by the five-inch guns provided some protection, and Casca gratefully leaped into one and hurried to use his entrenching tool to deepen it.
All over the slope men were going to the ground in the same fashion, while those who didn't died quickly.
But Major Blandings had other ideas. He had received orders to engage the Germans and was determined to do so. The impossibility of the task and the misguided nature of the uninformed orders did not concern him. He appeared on the slope amongst the troops, an immaculate, erect, khaki-clad figure, slapping his elegant leather leggings with a swagger stick as he exhorted the troops to move up the slope.
Casca cursed to himself as he clambered out of the safety of his crater. The best thing to do, he told himself, would be to shoot the bloody fool and put an end to the useless attack. But it was impossible not to admire the blind bravery of the man and almost impossible not to follow him.
They gained a few yards and went to the ground again. But after only a couple of minutes, the major was moving once more back and forth across the slope, chanting a string of absurdities about service to king and country, the glory of the empire, and more nonsense than Casca had heard on a battlefield in two thousand years. It seemed, though, that personal battle experience had mellowed the ill-tempered officer, and he no longer abused his men, nor did he again mention cowardice.
Then, for some reason that he didn't himself understand, Casca was on his feet leading a small group of men in a headlong charge into the mouth of the German guns.
Most of his men went down, and when he stumbled on the lip of a crater, Casca was pleased to fall into it. He lay in the bottom, his face pressed into the broken earth, gasping for breath and cursed King George, the British Empire, the British army, its officers, and especially Major Blandings.
But before very long, he was back on his feet and once more racing up the slope with men dying alongside him. When they got to within a hundred yards of the German position, the attack faltered to a halt. Any further advance was impossible. Any man who stood erect for a moment was cut apart by the withering machine gun fire. Even the stupidly heroic major was now sheltering in a crater.
And now the Germans brought trench mortars to bear, small weapons that fired a high explosive shell. These weapons were not high powered and had only a short range, but with the machine guns keeping everybody in the
As he closed his eyes, he thought that the next day was going to be hell no matter what mistakes the German commander might continue to make.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning dawned bright and clear. And noisy as usual.
The German heavy guns were reaching for the Tommies, dug in on the ridge. The abrupt peak in the landscape made a difficult target, and most of the shells fell either short or long. Those that landed anywhere near the ridge, however, had a devastating effect on the poorly sheltered Tommies.
A dispatch runner had carried the news of the battle to headquarters and returned with orders for a frontal attack on the German position on the farther ridge.
"Sheer fucking lunacy," Lieutenant George fumed as he led his men into the doomed action.
Casca could only agree as he followed. They charged down the short slope, many falling now to the artillery shells that were exploding short of the ridge. The artillery fire continued the slaughter as they crossed the gulch, and then they struggled up the long slope toward the well-entrenched Germans.
The German machine guns opened fire, raking the hillside with lead and wiping out huge numbers of British soldiers. The numerous craters excavated the previous day by the five-inch guns provided some protection, and Casca gratefully leaped into one and hurried to use his entrenching tool to deepen it.
All over the slope men were going to the ground in the same fashion, while those who didn't died quickly.
But Major Blandings had other ideas. He had received orders to engage the Germans and was determined to do so. The impossibility of the task and the misguided nature of the uninformed orders did not concern him. He appeared on the slope amongst the troops, an immaculate, erect, khaki-clad figure, slapping his elegant leather leggings with a swagger stick as he exhorted the troops to move up the slope.
Casca cursed to himself as he clambered out of the safety of his crater. The best thing to do, he told himself, would be to shoot the bloody fool and put an end to the useless attack. But it was impossible not to admire the blind bravery of the man and almost impossible not to follow him.
They gained a few yards and went to the ground again. But after only a couple of minutes, the major was moving once more back and forth across the slope, chanting a string of absurdities about service to king and country, the glory of the empire, and more nonsense than Casca had heard on a battlefield in two thousand years. It seemed, though, that personal battle experience had mellowed the ill-tempered officer, and he no longer abused his men, nor did he again mention cowardice.
Then, for some reason that he didn't himself understand, Casca was on his feet leading a small group of men in a headlong charge into the mouth of the German guns.
Most of his men went down, and when he stumbled on the lip of a crater, Casca was pleased to fall into it. He lay in the bottom, his face pressed into the broken earth, gasping for breath and cursed King George, the British Empire, the British army, its officers, and especially Major Blandings.
But before very long, he was back on his feet and once more racing up the slope with men dying alongside him. When they got to within a hundred yards of the German position, the attack faltered to a halt. Any further advance was impossible. Any man who stood erect for a moment was cut apart by the withering machine gun fire. Even the stupidly heroic major was now sheltering in a crater.
And now the Germans brought trench mortars to bear, small weapons that fired a high explosive shell. These weapons were not high powered and had only a short range, but with the machine guns keeping everybody in the
Similar Books
