Artillery barrage to be put down in support of infantry operations today on GILLEMONT FARM and the KNOLL at Honnecourt, following smoke shell bombardment.
At ten minutes before zero, smoke shells will be fired from 4.5 Howitzers into the trenches to encourage the enemy to put gas masks on, if the wind is favourable.
The battalion will form up in NO MAN’S LAND about 300 yards from our positions and attack with four companies in line. The infantry will advance at ZERO. ZERO will be 06.20 a.m. Heavy artillery barrage to be put down at 06.30 a.m.
Harassing fire by a few 18-pounders will take place at the same time and on the same targets as given above for the 4.5 Howitzers, with due regard for the safety of our own troops.
Zero plus ten to zero plus twenty, 3 rounds per gun per minute.
Zero plus twenty to zero plus twenty-five, 2 rounds per gun per minute.
Zero plus twenty-five – CEASE FIRE.
Two guns will move in a creeping barrage to assist the defensive barrage. Every platoon will be issued with SOS signals and observation posts will be held in the craters to watch for these and repeat them.
Machine guns will bring indirect fire on the ground and be held in reserve when the SOS goes up, to assist the defensive barrage.
Watches will be synchronized by an officer from the heavy artillery batteries.
The village of EPEHY is to be held at all costs.
ACKNOWLEDGE
After the sea of mud at the Somme, the chalky French soil of Cambrai came as a relief, but the bitter winter wind that whipped across the desolate landscape offered little comfort and the pain of the biting cold rendered Harry and his pals dumb in their dug-outs.
There were those who jabbered incessantly through the night in the grip of trench fever, which many saw as a fate worse than taking a German bullet. There was one who sang ‘Blaydon Races’ at the top of his lungs at all hours until the sergeant had him taken away because no one got any rest. It was never the most obvious candidates who went doolally; not the quiet, shy ones, but the most chatty and cheerful, the ones who’d not be out of place getting lairy after a few pints in the Bigg Market back home. Harry had resolved early on to keep his own counsel. People seemed to respect that.
As the brigade made ready for battle at first light, they were enveloped in a thick and freezing fog, heavier than the early morning fret on the Tyne. At the head of the column, Harry could only hear the shouts of the gunners as they attached the harnesses at the rear and made ready the ammunition wagon. The horses always got a bit skittish before zero hour, stamping their hooves in readiness, great clouds of condensation rising from their nostrils. But Domino stood stock-still, waiting for Harry to give the order to move off.
They were stretched thinly along the front, it had to be said, with the whole division defending about thirteen thousand yards of trenches and fortified posts, supported by just two brigades of field artillery.
Harry climbed up into the saddle, settled his feet into the stirrups and touched the packet of letters from Kitty that he kept in his breast pocket for good luck. They were wrapped in a handkerchief she’d embroidered for him, of the horse with a white blaze down his nose. Poor old Top Hat. Harry had made sure he didn’t suffer in the end. Top Hat had broken his leg falling down a shell hole on the Ypres Salient. Harry had pulled out his gun, patted the horse’s muzzle, said his farewells, and fired a good clean shot between the animal’s ears, to put him out of his misery.
He hadn’t the heart to tell Kitty. She lived for all the tales about Top Hat and Domino, their bravery under fire, what they got up to when the battle was over and how they gave the sergeant gyp. Of course, Harry was acting sergeant now, a German sniper had seen to that a few months back, but he didn’t tell Kitty or Mum that either because they’d only worry about him. Harry had to admit, it gave him something to think about too, keeping all those stories going for his sister, recreating battles in which the horses were heroes and the men lived to fight another day.
It was true that Domino was a diamond and Harry would never be happy going into battle without him. He’d heard about it from other brigades, when the lead driver had lost his best animal and then their luck changed. As long as Domino was with him, he’d get through it. He reached down and gave him a little pat on his flank, just as he always did before they set off.
So many pals of the 55th had perished in the mud of the Somme and Ypres; Flers-Courcelette, Morval, the Menin Road Ridge, Passchendaele. They were just foreign names to folks back home but to him they were a living nightmare, of men drowning in a sea of mud, the screams of the dying, the sky blackened by smoke from the endless artillery barrages and the air thick with the stench of death and cordite. The gas, oh God, the mustard gas; the poor sods who’d been blinded, their eyes covered with thick bandages, feeling their way, hands on each other’s shoulders, the burning pain etched on their faces. He’d rather die, like his mate Robbo, who had his head blown clean off his shoulders by an enemy mortar, than face that agony.
Harry knew the desperation of hurling himself into a freezing, muddy trench at nightfall to take cover from enemy machine gunfire; the horror of opening his eyes at first light, the rain pattering on his face, to find he was sleeping with men who would never wake and the rats were already at work, gnawing at their fingers. The sight and smell of the dead rotting in flooded shell holes haunted his dreams. So, there was no shame in lying to his family. He was doing a job that would make them proud, even if he couldn’t tell them the half of it.
Word had reached the brigade that after the first tank assault on Cambrai last week, church bells had rung out back in Blighty, but everyone here knew that the powers that be were just looking through rose-tinted spectacles. The Boche was dug in hard and little ground had been gained. Tanks had got stuck in the canal and one had even busted up the bridge that the troops needed to use to get across to attack enemy positions. Newfangled machinery was a wondrous thing in battle, but only when it worked. Yes, horses were old-fashioned but as far as Harry and his men were concerned, they were bloody effective war machines and more reliable than tanks.
Harry had learned to blot out the deafening din of exploding ordnance, but the sheer scale of the enemy’s artillery barrage that morning made his ears ring to the point where he could no longer form a sentence. Up ahead, a small copse of trees was being felled by a relentless shower of mortars from the Hun lines, blowing everything to splinters with a roar and whoosh, punctuated by the staccato fire of British Lewis machine guns in response. Suddenly, through the smoke and shrapnel, wave after wave of enemy soldiers came charging down Villers Ridge, firing on every living creature in their path. Seconds later, another sound joined the battle. Enemy aeroplanes buzzed low, strafing lines of men in khaki beneath them. Harry watched his fellow Tommies drop like skittles, as still more coal-scuttle helmets and grey uniforms appeared on the ridge and it seemed the front would be overrun by Germans in moments.
The 55th had been given their orders, to hold the position at all costs, so the gun was rolled forward to provide the creeping barrage of supporting fire which would force the Hun back or at least make them dive for cover. The ground was hard, frozen solid, which made the going easier, as Harry gave Domino a little nudge to walk him on. They couldn’t have gone more than twenty yards when someone yelled, ‘Incoming!’ and the gun, horses and men were blown ten feet in the air in a blinding flash of white light.
Snow was falling when Harry came to and the battlefield was eerily quiet.
A searing pain in his abdomen nailed him to the spot. He inhaled sharply, hearing himself rasp. Glancing down, he saw blood oozing through his khakis, underneath his ribs, and the shock of it made him want to scream. He wriggled his toes, relieved to find both legs still attached, but he was stuck fast, buried deep in the earth from the blast. He tried to move, to pull himself free, but his strength was draining away; the effort provoked a gush of blood, which spread downwards, spilling out over his trousers. Instinctively, he fumbled in his top pocket and pulled out the bundle of Kitty’s letters, holding them to the wound to try to stem the flow. For an instant, he was floating high above himself, looking down at his broken body as his blood seeped crimson through Kitty’s needlework and drenched her words. Then he was back in the shell hole, as the snow started to form a blanket over him.
Turning his head to the side, he felt warmth on his face, and heard an unmistakable whinny. It was Domino, bloodied, but still alive lying next to him. A deep gash on the horse’s belly had exposed the muscle underneath which was twitching in a nest of red sinews. Domino’s back legs lay at crazy angles, his rump half covered by earth. The animal’s eyes rolled in a silent agony.
‘It’s all right, boy, we’ll be all right,’ Harry murmured, his hands closing fast around the letters. They lay there together, Domino’s breath mingling with his own. And then the blackness enveloped them.
A shot rang out. ‘I’ve put him out of his misery, poor blighter. Shame to see such a fine animal end up like that. I used to ride them on my dad’s farm when I was a boy. He’d weep to see what we do to them over here.’
‘Another goner here! Come on, mate, let’s get you back where we can give you a decent burial at least.’
Harry tried to scream but he could make no sound. His fingers were frozen solid, he was unable to move. He felt himself being pulled from his grave in the shell hole and covered with a tarpaulin as he was carried away.