THE bugles wakened me. Some time before, the Colonel had risen and insisted that I get some sleep. He had taken my place by the parapet, and I had taken his. Now, sitting up to throw off the effects of the deep sleep into which I had fallen, I heard the bugles again: not the pleasant familiar note of our own bugles, but something akin to that of a cavalry trumpet. They were playing a call which, if not exactly familiar to me, was nonetheless plain in its meaning. It was after ten o’clock: the attack had begun.
I came out on to the ridge as the first crack-crack of small-arms fire sounded to the south-east: Denis’s company was evidently engaged. Almost immediately afterwards, the sound of an exploding grenade came from the area A Company were holding. No wonder the bugles were sounding. The noise of battle grew around us. Soon, the coloured lights of tracer rounds were flying over us from somewhere to the west. From the knoll and saddle we had held the day before, the bugles started another call. The Colonel decided to take a stroll round and departed for Denis’s headquarters. Reports began to come in; Guy called up his Regiment and told them to stand by. They replied acidly that they had not yet stood down; there had been other calls during the night, even if we had not heard them. Ronnie began to shoot on to D Company’s previous position, as a machine-gun opened fire from there. The temperature of the battle began to warm.
The tactics of the enemy were unchanged: they seemed incapable of learning by experience. Coughs, rustling, even chatter alerted our defence as their soldiers crept forward to attack. The first rush thrown back, a short pause ensued until the next assault began. The pattern was the same. And, as before, they made no effort to concentrate on one particular sector in the early stages; that would come later—much later—after they had sustained many casualties and been forced to call forward substantial reinforcements. On the south-eastern end of the ridge, Denis’s Company and Frank’s Mortar Troop were engaged by frequent assaults and a good deal of machine-gun fire that was uncomfortable in view of the shallowness of their trenches, most of which had been driven down only a few feet on to solid rock. In the north-west, A Company were mainly engaged in fighting for a small feature a little forward of Point 235; a mound, covered with trees and scrub. Here, Donald had forgotten that he was the Assistant Adjutant and was commanding seventeen men—in name, a platoon—who were hanging on by little more than the skin of their teeth.
I called up Ken and told him how the battle was progressing. He sounded very tired, and I knew that he had had no proper sleep since the first action began. I was just about to leave the set when the GSO 3 came on for me. He wanted to tell me that the air transport sorties would be flown sometime after nine o’clock: had we any means of marking a Dropping Zone? I felt like saying: tell them to aim for a high rock with a lot of Chinese round it, but forbore; he was doing his best. We agreed on smoke markers to save further discussion. In addition to the news about the supply drop was another cheering item: we had a promise of substantial offensive air support once daylight came. How I had wished during the past two days for a squadron—even a flight—of F 80s. Whatever happened to-day, we should give a really good account of ourselves.
The Colonel had come back by this time. We discussed the question of air support from the fighters with Guy; he had already been informed about it over the Gunner wireless net. But there was a pressing problem in this connection. Our wireless batteries were getting very low—they were certainly not going to last as long as we had hoped. We agreed to continue the practice of keeping only one of the Gunner sets open and, as an additional measure, to close the Rear-Link set again, except when we wished to pass a message. If Brigade Headquarters wanted to reach us, they could ask us to open up through the Gunners’ set.
When Guy had gone over to see Ronnie and Carl, the Colonel told me that he had visited D Company. Mike seemed to be quite happy that they could continue holding their present positions. They had inflicted such casualties on the enemy that they had drawn off for rather longer than usual after the last attack; and Sergeant Murphy, with his Vickers section nearby, seemed quite secure. Young Bob, the Assistant Machine-Gun Officer, was down with them now. What really concerned him was that Donald was having a very hard time on the little feature forward of A Company’s main position. He was quite certain that seventeen men were not enough to hold it. If it was going to be held securely, Jumbo would have to reinforce them as soon as he could, perhaps from his reserve platoon. Terry’s platoon on the high ground of Point 235, behind Donald’s feature, was in a good position to cover any party going forward along the right flank—the distance between them was less than fifty yards. A decision would have to be taken as soon as it was daylight.
It was almost daylight already. In half an hour, at the very most, we should be able to see our enemies clearly. As the light grew, I realized that the position in which our slit trench was situated was just at the top of a small path that led up the steep slope from the valley to the west. I reminded the Colonel that we had a bag of eighteen grenades with us. We put them to hand just behind the parapet.
“It seems to me,” said the Colonel,“that we are going to find a job for ourselves as riflemen before very much longer.”
I was to remember those words a little later on.
The bugles were sounding again.
“It’ll be a long time before I want to hear a cavalry trumpet playing, after this,” said the Colonel.
“It would serve them right, sir,” I said, “if we confused them by playing our own bugles. I wonder which direction they’d go if they heard ‘Defaulters’ played?”
I was half joking, but the Colonel took me seriously.
“Have we got a bugle up here?” he asked. It appeared that we had; for when I called down the slope to the east, the Drum-Major’s voice replied through the bare, scattered trees:
“Got one in my haversack, sir.”
“Well, play it, Drum-Major.”
But it was no good telling the Drum-Major just to “play”. He was an experienced man and, in barrack routine, he knew exactly what should be played and when. On special occasions, he expected to receive instructions from the Adjutant, quite rightly; and this was undoubtedly a special occasion.
“It’s getting on towards daylight,” I called back to him, “play Reveille—the Long and the Short. And play ‘Fire Call’—in fact, play all the calls of the day as far as ‘Retreat’, but don’t play that!”
A little way below us in the darkness, I heard a few preliminary “peeps” as the Drum-Major warmed his instrument up. This was followed by the sound of stones being dislodged as he climbed from his slit-trench to sound the calls; for I have said that the Drum-Major was a man who knew how things should be done, and the idea of playing his bugle under cover in a slit-trench was beyond him. I could just see his tall, lean figure, topped by a cap comforter—almost a shadow in the darkness. Then he began to play. He played each ‘Reveille’ twice, he played ‘Defaulters’, ‘Cookhouse’, ‘Officers Dress for Dinner’, all the ‘Orderly NCO’ calls, and a dozen or more besides. He always played a bugle well; that day he was not below form. The sweet notes of our own bugle, which now echoed through the valley below him, died away. For a moment, there was silence—the last note had coincided with a lull in the action. Then the noise of battle began again—but with a difference: there was no sound of a Chinese bugle. There are not many Drum-Majors in the British Army who can claim to have silenced the enemy’s battle calls with a short bugle recital.
It is morning. Beyond Hill 235, a sudden rush has driven back Donald’s little group. They withdraw under heavy mortar fire which intensifies as they reach the top of Point 235. The air is black with mortar smoke; it seems as if a huge, dark screen has been dropped across the top of the hill. Men come staggering back from Terry’s position; eleven men, wounded, come reeling back, their senses bemused by shock and injury. The face of one man has been laid open by a splinter of metal; another’s arm is hanging limply by his side, the bone smashed. Sergeant Pugh has been wounded in the shoulder, but he has refused to go back and is helping to reorganize the position. Two men are carrying Terry back; he is quite unconscious from a wound in the top of his head. They lay him down in a slit trench and one of the medical orderlies begins to bandage his head. Donald is coming down the hill. He is wounded in the shoulder and there is a gash upon his forehead. His face is pale and drawn; it is plain that he is about to faint.
Now there are two of us to lead A Company: Jumbo and me— there is nothing for me to do at Battalion Headquarters just now. Here we are, the two of us, and the gallant little body of A Company that has had two such nights of battle as I have never seen before. We have been pushed off the little feature, which is not so serious; and we have been pushed off Point 235—which is. So we must go back to it. And we must go back now before they have time to invest it in real strength; for if they secure the height absolutely, the flood gates will have been opened and the waters will pour in upon the Battalion position, no matter how well the bottom gate is held by Frank and Denis. And D Company, further down the slope, will be washed away with Support Company and Battalion Headquarters.
I look round the small body of men in the trenches. Some of them are young men, hardly more than boys; some of them men in their late thirties; most of them are somewhere in between. I see that it is a good lot of faces to be in a tight corner with; reliable faces; the faces of old friends. After a minute or so, we are all able to manage a smile: even young Fish with a half dozen pieces of metal inside his fair head. When I see that smile, I know we are ready to go.
Clayden has come up from Support Company to give a hand: he takes the left flank. Sergeant Tuggey is on the right. In the centre, with me, are Masters and Middleton; Guilding is there, too. I pick three or four more and we are ready to go. We all start running forward.
The top is thirty yards away. The scarred, red earth flies beneath our feet, our weapons are firing, we are on them, they go back, the hill is ours: it is as easy as that. We jump into the trenches that they occupied so recently and turn our attention to securing what we have regained. Half right, the scrub and trees of the small feature are alive with enemy: we may have to make a sortie to clear that. To our front, the hill drops away in a long, gentle slope down to the valley below Castle Hill. There is good cover here for the enemy: dwarf oaks and a group of pine trees are on either side of the track running north. We shall have to maintain a careful watch on this approach. Nearer, for the first twenty yards along the track from my trench, the ground has been cleared—perhaps long ago by Spike’s Pioneers. Two felled trees lie across the track, at right angles to it. Left, the side of the ridge drops steeply to the western valley; Clayden must see that we are not surprised from this direction. Only the extreme right flank is secure. Here Tom’s Platoon of D Company are ready and waiting to give us fire support with their Brens. There can be no doubt as to what they can do: there are six dead Chinese on the right flank, caught by Tom’s lads as they ran back after our assault on the hill.
Clayden moves a little way over the edge of the ridge, towards the western valley. He can see the whole way down the slope from here very nicely, and he remains within voice range. Tuggey moves up further on the right flank so that he can engage the whole of the small feature. Middleton and two of the others move to different trenches. Everyone now has an arc to watch and to shoot in; the arcs overlap; our front is covered with potential fire. It is time for a smoke break.
It is a quarter to eight. By the sound of chattering below the edge of the hill directly ahead of me, the enemy are about to make a third attempt to retake Point 235. Someone is giving a pep talk to their soldiers; I hope he is off form this morning. Sergeant-Major Gallagher has just left me after bringing forward more ammunition. All in all, we are not too badly placed, for the moment. We can hold out for some time if they keep to the present battle tempo. Now Ronnie has come doubling over the crest of the hill. He can spare me some artillery fire if I need it just now. He has just finished a shoot for Denis. I accept his offer enthusiastically. They are going to come straight up the track at any minute; but we can deal with that party. The area I want sorted out is the small feature.
“Well,” says Ronnie, “it’ll mean dropping ’em a bit short. Are you prepared to accept ‘unders’?”
We certainly are. For the sake of neutralizing that wretched feature, we’ll accept as many “unders” as he likes. Ronnie goes back to his wireless set; I can see that his sense of propriety as a Gunner prevents him from being quite satisfied. Obviously, the Gun Position thinks the same way for, a minute or so later, I get a hail from Jumbo.
“The Gunners say that you’ll have to be prepared to accept several ‘unders’.”
Good Heavens! Recce dropped lots of “unders” on himself yesterday. What are they so worried about, to-day?
They will have to get a move on with the shoot; the Chinese are coming. Yellow faces appear among the pine trees and the dwarf oaks. A machine-gun is firing thirty yards away from that damned small mound: it has killed a man to my right. At any minute they will rush forward from their cover.
Ah! there is a whistling in the air. We all duck into our trenches. The sky darkens; the whole ground is shaken with the noise of explosions. The Gunners are doing us proud. I He on the bottom of my slit trench, covered with earth blown in from the bursting shells. A peculiar black and orange beetle is crawling up the wall of the trench. He seems quite unaffected by the disturbance outside.
Another minute passes and it is quiet. I kneel up to shake off the loose earth. What a wonderful view; not a Chinese in sight; and the small feature is simply pitted with shell craters. Marvellous chaps, these Gunners!
Someone is throwing grenades; and they are throwing them at us. Here comes another one: a small, dark object against the background of blue sky, its wooden handle turning over and over as it begins the descent on to our positions. It falls near Master’s slit-trench; he ducks for a moment as it explodes. We begin to scan our immediate front closely for the source of this annoyance.
From the direction of their flight, it would seem that all the grenades have come from a single point somewhere along the track that runs away from us down the north-western end of the feature. Yet this ground is entirely open immediately in front of us. Unless they are standing up—which would seem unlikely—they must have prodigious strength to throw from the cover some way down the track. Surely it cannot be from there. We continue to watch. Another grenade rises suddenly into the air. Ah, the trees —the felled trees: one or two very small men must have remained behind after the last attack upon our positions and concealed themselves by pressing their bodies right up against the trunks. It is from there, less than fifteen yards away, that they have been throwing their grenades at us. Three of us draw the pins from our Mills grenades, three arms draw back for the throw, three arms come up and over. We take cover as the grenades drop to the ground just beyond the tree trunk where we suspect the enemy lies. There is a flash, two more follow in quick succession; the three explosions blend into one mighty roar. From behind the tree trunk, two figures appear; two little cotton-clad men in their teacup-shaped steel helmets garnished with scraps of scrub and dwarf oak branches. One of them is unable to run; already he has fallen back, his life-blood pouring through the back of his jacket. The other is uninjured by the grenades and runs desperately for the cover further back along the track. Ten yards from the tree trunk which concealed him, he is spun round by a burst of fire from a Sten machine-carbine and flung, lifeless, to the ground. The incident is over. Looking at my watch, I see that what seemed an hour’s action took but three minutes of the morning.
The sun is rising high in the sky, and we are still on the hill. Apart from the small feature, half right—Donald’s mound—we have not lost a foot of ground in spite of their repeated assaults on our positions. In A Company’s area alone, we have had six counter-attacks upon Hill 235 since we threw them back just after dawn. It is certain that they will soon muster for a seventh attempt. Their voices, calling out to one another, are heard plainly from below the brow of the hill to our front; a sure sign of an impending attack.
The Colonel doubles across the slope behind me and drops into my trench.
“We’ve got some air support, at last,” he says. “From what the air observer says they’re massing to attack your positions now. Let me know where you want the air strike and I’ll call them down.”
We do not need glasses to survey this ground: it is a close battle. I show him the main points from which I believe they will mount their attack and agree on a means of marking our own positions. In two minutes we have said all that needs to be said. As he is going back to Battalion Headquarters, I say:
“How have things been with you?”
He does not tell me that they have been under the most intense heavy machine-gun fire for the last fifty minutes; he does not admit to strolling about under fire along the whole front in order to visit and inspire the companies; he does not say that he has made another sortie to repel a group of would-be infiltrators. He puffs at his pipe for a moment, regards the smoke difting up into the air, and taps some ash back into the pipe bowl.
“Not bad, really,” he says. “Have you a match to spare?”
We are going to need that air strike quickly. We are engaged in a fire-fight with two machine-guns on the mound; another is firing indirectly from behind the brow of the hill right in front of us. Several parties have tried to rush forward to draw our fire and they have been too large to be permitted to come nearer than thirty yards. At any moment, something in excess of a hundred Chinese soldiers, armed with rifles and machine-carbines will come out of the scrub to our front and rush upon us. We are familiar with their tactics.
This time, however, there is a difference in the circumstances under which we await them: our ammunition is practically exhausted. The solution to our problem may lie in the grenade on the edge of my trench—a grenade which will release a great cloud of violet coloured smoke when I throw it forward. But there is only one of these grenades. I must judge the moment carefully or we shall be under the fire of our own aircraft as well as that from the Chinese.
High above us, their silver wings shining in the sunlight, the F 80s are circling before making their run-in. The flight-leader is already turning to begin the air strike. I unscrew the black bakelite cap of the grenade, half unwind the tape, and throw it up into the air with all my might. It lands beyond the tree trunks on the path and bursts. Released, the violet smoke seems to hang for a moment in a dense cloud, then spreads across the ridge, obscuring the mound, the track, and the dwarf oaks from our view.
This is an anxious moment. If I have thrown the grenade too soon, the smoke that marks the forward edge of our positions will have dispersed before the aircraft reach us, and the chances are that they will release their terrible load as much on us as upon the Chinese. If the Chinese are ready to attack instantly, are sufficiently well-controlled to seize their opportunity, they will rise under cover of the smoke and rush us in such strength that our few weapons will be unable to destroy them before we are overwhelmed. Twenty—maybe thirty—seconds will show what turn in events the smoke grenade will bring.
There is a shout from the rear; a distant whine grows to a deafening high-pitched scream; a great, tumbling wave of air descends on the position, forcing the red dust up all around us in a choking cloud; one’s mind retains an impression of a silver object that appeared and, in the same instant that it was perceived, disappeared. The F 80s are making their strike!
In passing, they have dispersed the violet marker smoke except for a single tentacle that hangs in the air just to the left of the track. Our eyes do not linger upon this. Forward, where the dwarf oaks and pines stood, there is a raging mass of flame, still rising, still spreading, from the napalm tanks the planes have dropped. There will be no attack from this direction for a time; and the men who lay in readiness beneath the cover of the oaks will never rise to make their charge. The aircraft make a second run. This time we are less concerned with watching for the enemy and see, in the brief moment that they pass over us, that they fly across the mound half-right. As they reach us, they release two aluminium tanks and these descend upon the rear approaches to the mound. They are napalm tanks; ignited, the jellied gasoline bursts out and up into a great sheet of yellow flame, consuming everything that it envelops. Now it is the turn of the mound itself. On the third run, the 80s drop their tanks early, before they reach us, and the tanks drop on to the very area from which the enemy machine-guns were firing. They are firing no longer.
In all, the air-strike involved seven runs; for, after they had dropped their napalm, they returned to distribute their rockets and machine-gun fire amongst the mortar crews, the reserve assault waves, and a heavy machine-gun firing down into Tom’s position from the east. I watched them climb back to the white clouds as they returned to base to refuel and re-arm. As the shapes receded, I saw three more coming towards us from the south-east, flying at about ten thousand feet. They were transport aircraft and they had our supplies aboard. It was nine thirty; in half an hour we might begin to look for the relief column; in the meantime we were about to receive a supply drop. On our own front, the enemy had received a setback which would take them at least an hour to overcome—in fact, the time it would take to bring forward more reinforcements from, say, the area of Castle Hill. Things were really looking up! I followed the flight of the transports as they flew over us, expecting them to circle preparatory to a run-in.
They began to turn before they reached the Imjin, altering course towards the west. All at once, I realized that they were flying out of sight, had disappeared, indeed, in a direction that would take them out to sea. I was pondering over this when I got a hail from Sergeant-Major Gallagher.
“You’re wanted at Battalion Headquarters, sir,” he called. I told Sergeant Tuggey to take charge and ran back across the hilltop. On the reverse slope, the Sergeant-Major was busy trying to repair a Bren by removing parts from two others, also damaged. The wounded had long since been removed to the Regimental Aid Post.
“You’d better watch that ridge as you go back, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major. “There’s a machine-gun firing from the west—somewhere across the valley, I should think.”
He was still warning me as a burst of tracer shot across the ridge from the west. It was a long burst and, while it lasted, separated A Company from Battalion Headquarters. Once it ceased, it was time to go. I dashed back along the ridge like a quarter-miler, only stopping when I reached the Rear-Link wireless set. The whole Headquarters had moved from the position I had left earlier that morning, principally because of the machine-gun firing from the west. It was this weapon that had killed Richard as he walked across to the wireless set where Dawe and Allum kept watch. He was killed instantly, of course, for the round entered his forehead. As I passed the spot where he lay, I could hardly believe that he was really dead; it was impossible that someone as full of life and fun as he was could be cut down as suddenly as that.
The Colonel was sitting by himself below the Rear-Link set, looking at his map. He stood up as I approached, looking so completely calm that I had no idea of the importance of his news. I might have known that he would not have called me back to discuss some commonplace.
“You know that armoured/infantry column that’s coming up from 3 Div to relieve us,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it isn’t coming.”
I said, “Right, sir.” There did not seem to be much else to say.
The Colonel continued with all the news he had to that moment. It appeared that the Chinese were now pressing so hard to the east that the relief column intended for us would be required to cover the withdrawal of the Division through Uijongbu, below which the new defence line was being established. Our commitment was at an end; in a short time, under cover of the guns, we should commence to fight our way south.
Mike, called back from D Company Headquarters, joined us; and Bob, the Doctor; the Gunners came over; Sam appeared from Support Company Headquarters across the way, where he lodged with Spike; Guido came doubling up from the south-east to represent Denis; and last of all, Henry climbed up from the Drums position, which he had been visiting. The Colonel explained the position and gave us our orders for the withdrawal from the main feature. We should move south-west towards the right flank of the Ist ROK Division, where tanks had come forward to assist them. The Colonel took us to the edge of the ridge and pointed out the route we should take: at least there would be cover once we reached the end of the valley. We were to start at ten o’clock. When he had finished, he paused for a moment before turning to Bob.
“Bob,” he said, eventually. “I’m afraid we shall have to leave the wounded behind.”
Bob paused, too—just for a moment—before he replied.
“Very well, sir,” he said; “I quite understand the position.”
We went back to our respective places of duty to make preparations for the withdrawal.
A Company were to be the first to withdraw. We distributed our remaining ammunition amongst those fit to bear arms and made the walking wounded as comfortable as possible. Each rifleman had three rounds; each Bren, one and a half magazines: each Sten, a half magazine. There were seven Mills grenades left and four white-phosphorus smoke. With this armament, we were going to fight our way back across at least four miles of hill country. We destroyed everything that might be of the smallest use to the enemy and then sat back to await the time when we should move.
We were so thirsty. The few rations distributed during the previous night remained almost untouched; only the tins of fruit and milk had been opened. Sitting there, on the forward slope of Hill 235, we thought of all the water that was flowing, at that very moment, down the Imjin River to be wasted in the sea! In front of us, the blackened surface of the hill still smoked from the napalm fires; the mound lay bare and deserted—no longer a menace, now that its cover was destroyed. One by one, the minutes ticked away towards ten o’clock.
At three minutes to ten, I gave the sign to Jumbo to set off with the main body of A Company. Although there was no sign of the enemy, we knew that we were under observation and wished, of course, to keep from him, as long as possible, the news that we were leaving our position. At ten, exactly, the small party that remained got out of their trenches under cover of white-phosphorus smoke and withdrew across the hilltop. The job was over; a new task was begun.
Back on the ridge, I saw that Jumbo was waiting with the main body just above Support Company Headquarters, where a section of the machine-guns was established to cover Hill 235. A Company moved off, and I rejoined Battalion Headquarters; for A Company were now so weak that one officer could command them without difficulty. I reached the Colonel just as he finished talking on the Rear-Link wireless, and I saw that his face was grave.
“Let Sam know,” he said, “that I have just been told by the Brigadier that the guns are unable to support us—the gun lines are under attack themselves. Our orders are quite simple: every man to make his own way back.”
He began talking to the other companies on the wireless, as I ran over to Sam’s Headquarters. All was bustle now. Above Spike’s positions, the machine-gun section were destroying their heavy gear as I went back to the ridge. Nearby, I met Bob returning to the Regimental Aid Post from a talk with the Colonel. The signallers had already destroyed their sets, and Henry was stamping on the ashes of the codebook he had just burnt. We were all ready to move. In small groups, the Headquarters split up and ran over the ridge. When they had gone, I, too, came up on to the ridge crest and prepared to descend the other side. Bob was standing alone by the path that led to the steep slopes below us.
“Come on, Bob,” I said. “We’re about the last to go—you ought to have gone before this. The Colonel will be off in a minute and that will be the lot.”
He looked at me for a moment before saying:
“I can—t go. I must stay with the wounded.”
For a few seconds I did not comprehend his meaning: we were all making our way out—there seemed a very fair chance that some of us would make it; to stay here was to stay certainly for capture, possibly for death, when the Chinese launched their final assault on the position. And then I realized that he had weighed all this—weighed it all and made a deliberate choice: he would place his own life in the utmost jeopardy in order to remain with the wounded at the time when they would need him most. Somewhere, the words appear, “Greater love hath no man than this.…” I knew now exactly what those words meant. Too moved to speak again, I clapped my hand upon his shoulder and went on.
By now, the greater portion of the Battalion who had descended from my end of the ridge had reached the valley floor. Scrambling, slipping, jumping from rock to rock, I caught up the rear of Support Company and Battalion Headquarters. Of D Company, there was no sign. We turned towards the saddle at the head of the valley, south-west of us. Once over this, we should find cover to conceal our movements from the enemy; cover through which we might move towards the tanks, who had come forward to assist the Ist ROK Division to withdraw to the new defence line. Even now, I could see figures clambering up to the top of the saddle; some were already over the top. We hurried on along the stony path, careless of anything but speed. If we were to escape capture, we must reach the saddle. There was no hope of concealment on the bare slopes on either side of us; for what little cover there had been was burning from the napalm attacks made earlier in the day. A little way from the saddle, the main valley divided and we took the right branch. The way narrowed, forcing us to march in single file in places. A stream, which rose at the head of this branch, wove in and out across the path, and the surface became slippery with mud from our boots as we crossed a succession of fords. Nearer the foot of the saddle, where a patch of dead bushes formed a transparent arch over the stream, I saw that one of the Gunner officers was lying, face down, the back of his battledress blouse soaked in blood. I glanced at him in passing, and thought I recognized Frank.
All the way up the valley I had heard machine-gun fire sounding and resounding among the hills; but none had been directed at us. Only now, as we drew near to the saddle, as the walls of the valley seemed to close right in upon us in this dark and cheerless spot—now almost a ravine—did we feel the breath of the enemy’s fire. From the hills on either side, from the hills to our rear, light and heavy machine-guns fired towards us. Yet they did not hit us. There can be no doubt that, had they wished to, they could have mown us down like grass before a scythe. Exposed entirely to their weapons, we moved along the path under the very muzzles. The message that they conveyed was quite plain: we are up here; you are down there; you are exposed; we are concealed and you are in our sights. As we moved on, the fire from three machine-guns came down again, this time a good deal lower—unmistakably lower. I knew there was but one course open to me if the men with me were to remain alive for more than five minutes. Feeling as if I was betraying everything that I loved and believed in, I raised my voice and called:
“Stop!”
They stopped and looked towards me, their faces expectant. I shall never know what order they anticipated. Then I said:
“Put down your arms!”
A few seconds later, just at the foot of the saddle, I heard Sam say the same thing to those with whom he had moved. The words rang in my ears like an echo, a shameful echo. After all that we had done, after all the effort we had exerted in fulfilling our task, this was the end: surrender to the enemy!