4th October 1917
APPARENTLY THE WHOLE of the 1st Australian Pioneer Battalion are going to be involved in a major push. It’s all part of the big offensive that’s been going on for months up in this area. Some are calling it the Third Battle of Ypres, but a couple of fellows are saying the final objective is a town called, Passchendaele. As usual, no one really knows anything.
All I am aware of is, since July, there have been many, “minor” battles fought along this sector with the intention of achieving some greater goal. The Battle of Broodseinde is now destined to be one of them.
It’s 5:15 on the 4th of October. We arrived at the front-line trench, five hundred yards south-east of Zonnebeke, late last night. The company were told that zero hour would be at 06:00am, instructed to synchronise our watches and rest up. I woke early. The dawn is still an hour or more away and I sit, waiting for our guns to start and pondering our orders.
“D” Company has been specifically tasked to commence construction of a track that shall run due east through no-man’s land, heading directly towards the German line. We’re to begin twenty minutes after the whistles sound and the infantry men leap over the top.
The track will be known as “Helles Track” and it’ll take us all the way through to a position known as “Strong Point H” at coordinates, 28.D.29.c.4.9.
From here we’ll dig another trench. This one will run straight over the ridge and onto the flat ground of the plateau for two hundred and fifty yards. It’s intended to establish a supply line in, give the infantry troops another option should they need to withdraw and to provide a safe route for injured men to evacuate through.
All this last week, the Germans have continued to counter attack all along this sector, (without much success). I believe that one of their objectives is to regain the valuable defensive line they’ve lost around Polygon Wood. I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sound of an incoming shell.
It’s a shock to us, and I imagine our British and ANZAC commanders, to realise the Germans have started yet another counter offensive on the exact same day as ours. Their barrage hits us at 05:30, thirty minutes before we were scheduled to attack.
The sound and shockwaves of the German shells coming in frighten the daylights out of us and we dive for the trench floor.
Fritz has got the jump on us.
Within a couple of minutes, forced into action earlier than planned, our ANZAC guns retaliate. A fierce, thunderous cacophony of sound envelopes us and we know it is only the preliminaries. An overture to what will be a murderous main act, a fight between thousands of men. The opening barrages have hit our infantry hard and as we finally move forward, the havoc that had been wreaked is devastating to witness.
Throughout the day we watch streams of casualties coming back past us. Trying not to stare, trying to concentrate on our own tasks, but occasionally, when the stretcher bearers are struggling through the deep, cloying mud, and their precious load is pitching precariously, you catch sight of the poor wretch who has been wounded, agony etched in his face. It is hard, but you can’t dwell on it. You must keep on doing your bit, even though our bit is tough enough.
“D” company quickly became bogged down in their efforts to establish Helles Track. The rain has been non-stop for forty-eight hours and the land is a shell-holed quagmire. It takes a massive effort to fill in the shell craters and lay duckboards so that the path becomes solid enough to carry supplies across. Half of the company eventually make it to Strong Point “H” and commence work on the trench that will run directly up and over the ridge toward Strong Point “E”.
As they keep going, I have stayed with my platoon on Helles Track.
The rain finally stops at precisely 3:00pm on the 4th of October. It seems the weather Gods have synchronised their own watches.
The sun is filtering down through broken clouds onto a raging battlefield across West Flanders. Myself and five others are working together, laying duckboards. Mud up to our knees, exhausted and struggling to move freely. I look around at my mates, good solid Australian men, doing our duty for King and Country in the middle of a Belgian battlefield. I’m filled with pride.
I watch Private Walter Longstaff, an older fellow, bend over and take his helmet off to wipe the sweat from his brow. That’s when a German shell lands in front of him. The shrapnel takes the top of his head off and he dies instantly.
I am standing beside him.
In a wet, muddy Belgian field.
I am twenty-two years old.
I will forever be twenty-two years old.