Late on the afternoon of 30 June, the men due to attack the next morning marched out of the villages where they had been billeted. It was a moment charged with emotion as all those remaining behind turned out to give the fighting men a good send-off. ‘As second in command of a company, I had been ordered to stay behind. I remember saying to some of the men, “I’ll see you in Pozières tomorrow afternoon.” I was nearly in tears; these were my chaps and they were going in without me.’ (Capt. E. E. F. Baker, 2nd Middlesex)
When the Robin Hoods marched out of their village, Bill Soar was amazed to see the normally fierce regimental sergeant major standing by the side of the road with tears streaming down his face. One man to be left behind when the 7th South Lancs left their billets was Lieut Henry Webber. Although his duties as transport officer would normally have kept the sixty-eight-year-old Webber out of any action, many men were finding excuses to go up to the trenches and his C.O. had specifically ordered Webber to remain behind.
As the battalions marched up to the front, their divisional or corps commanders turned out to watch them go by. When the men from the 7th Division marched past, a veteran brigadier-general could not control himself and burst into tears but some of the men had other emotions: ‘My load was almost beyond human endurance. As we staggered up to the trenches, we passed, on the roadside, our divisional general with some of his staff. His words of cheer to us were, “Good luck, men. There is not a German left in their trenches, our guns have blown them all to Hell.” Then, I suppose, he got into his car and went home to his H.Q. to wine and dine, while we poor benighted blighters tottered on our way to glory.’ (Pte A. V. Pearson, Leeds Pals)
The infantry fell into a thoughtful silence as they settled down to march the remaining kilometres to the trenches. ‘The feeling of comradeship among us seemed to grow as we marched forward into a common danger. In particular I have a lasting memory of the man who was closest to me as we marched. I was only eighteen at the time, having joined the army under age, and he was some years older than I. As he spoke to me I became aware of a feeling almost of tenderness in him towards me, as though he sensed my fears and was trying to reassure both himself and me. “Don’t worry, Bill,” he said. “We’ll be all right.” And he spoke as gently as a mother trying to soothe a frightened child.’ (Pte W. Slater, 2nd Bradford Pals)
But the solemnity of the occasion could not restrain the more highly spirited of the men. ‘Whereas most of us had been very silent when we set off, a few here and there started to sing. Whether this was the result of nerves or not, I do not know, but they sang and gave comfort and/or relief to others.’ (Pte G. E. Waller, Glasgow Boys’ Brigade Battalion)
As they got nearer to the trenches some saw parties of cavalry and were reminded of all the talk of a breakthrough. Even C.S.M. Percy Chappell, a veteran of 1914, seeing the cavalrymen, quite expected that this time there would be a victory.
Every battalion eventually reached and passed through the artillery lines where the guns were firing constantly. The infantry could see the gunners, stripped to the waist and sweating over their work, their eyes blood-shot and some bleeding from the ears after six days of serving their guns. Spare gunners ran over to the infantry, shaking their hands and wishing them luck. ‘As we passed an Observation Post a major said, “Goodbye, boys. Sorry I can’t come with you.” Joke number one!’ (Pte F. P. Weston, 7th Buffs)*
Not all men marched in full battalions. As Paddy Kennedy’s had been split up to provide supporting and carrying parties, he found himself marching up with a party of only half a platoon strong. As the Manchesters passed the guns, they met a gunner carrying a dixie full of tea. The afternoon was very warm and the tea, immediately offered by the gunner, was very refreshing. The only problem was that Kennedy and his pals could not get at their cups, packed under several layers of equipment. This was soon solved when a steel helmet was produced for all to drink from.
Shortly afterwards, the Manchesters had a more sobering encounter. Two men were being escorted to the rear by armed Military Police – self-inflicted wounded. Kennedy could sympathize with these men, but could not understand their attitude; he was going into his first attack full of confidence that the Germans and their defences were all destroyed and wondered why these poor men did not share his optimism.
For some battalions the march was a long one and they were allowed to halt and rest. During one such rest, men of the Sheffield City Battalion were startled to see several German balloons, flying high in a clear sky. In spite of all the R.F.C.’s efforts, the Germans had managed to fly these at this vital moment and were observing the roads up to the British trenches, where thousands of men were marching up to take their places for the attack. On the same part of the front, near the Sucrerie (a small sugar-beet factory) at Colincamps, the men were marched past several freshly dug, wide trenches – graves ready for mass burials.
As night began to fall, another battalion, a little later than the others, was given a rest near a light railway siding. The area was crowded and noisy, with the full battalion of infantry – the 12th Northumberland Fusiliers – the railway troops and a unit of Chinese labourers unloading railway wagons. It was a beautiful summer evening and a strong tenor voice could be heard singing above the bustle and chatter. Gradually all work stopped and every man became quiet, listening to ‘My Little Grey Home in the West’, beautifully sung. When the singer finished there was loud applause and calls for more. Once again there was silence as ‘When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day’ was sung. Not a man present could keep his thoughts from those at home and the coming battle at that poignant moment. But the spell was soon broken when the battalion was ordered to move on. The infantry shouldered their packs and set off into the deepening gloom while the workers on the railway siding went back to their work.
The communication trenches were packed with soldiers from various units searching for their allotted positions. Men took the wrong turning, were sent back again, and collided with others coming up behind them. The night was noisy with curses and shouts. Staff officers hurried about, trying to sort out the confusion, settling arguments, while the heavily burdened soldiers could only shuffle forward, a few paces at a time, waiting for the traffic to move on. In the darkness, it was not always easy to identify an obstacle: ‘Orders were to lie down when star shells lit up the surroundings. On one such occasion, no more followed after the light from the star shells died out. After much shouting of, “Get a move on in front”, the C.S.M. went along to find out why we were not moving. He found one of our second-lieutenants (nicknamed Charlie Chaplin on account of his splayed feet) waiting for the man lying in front to move, but he was lying behind a corpse.’ (L/Cpl H. C. Lancashire, 1/4th London)
Bugler Bill Soar’s route to the front line was by way of a communication trench called Roberts Avenue which had been badly shelled and, because of the recent heavy rain, was waist-deep in mud in some places. At one such quagmire Soar was ordered to pass a heavy Vickers machine-gun overhead. When he was passed the Vickers, he sank chest-deep into the mud and was hardly able to keep his feet. The newly commissioned officer in charge of the gun became very agitated and threatened to shoot Soar if he did not get on with passing the gun forward. Soar transferred the gun to the next man but only by pushing himself deeper into the mud. It took two heaving men to get him out again and the suction was so great that he lost both puttees. Once clear, he still had to find his rifle, buried somewhere in the mud, before he could continue on his way.
Five men from an Ulster platoon had an unpleasant surprise. They had been sent along to the assembly trenches in the wood opposite Thiepval as an advance party. When their company (C Company of the Co. Down Volunteers) arrived, 9, 10 and 12 Platoons were at full strength but all they could see of their own 11 Platoon was one private. While the five had been away a heavy German shell had burst on the platoon as it was parading; forty-two men had been killed or wounded, leaving this one dazed survivor, and he was soon judged to be shell-shocked and sent to the rear. This left 11 Platoon to go into action with just four men and a corporal.
Not far away, the C.O. of the Derry Volunteers went through a rotten duck-board in the bottom of a trench and broke his leg. He had to go to the rear and thus missed his battalion’s first battle.
As the infantry struggled through the trenches, the senior generals relaxed in their châteaux. The battle was out of their hands now and they could do little to influence what was to happen on the next day. Success, and the generals’ reputations, would rest on the skill and courage of the ordinary soldiers. At Advanced G.H.Q. in Beauquesne village eleven miles behind the front lines, Douglas Haig made up his diary:
With God’s help I feel hopeful. The men are in splendid spirits. Several have said that they have never before been so instructed and informed of the nature of the operation before them. The wire has never been so well cut, nor the artillery preparation so thorough.*
At Querrieux, Sir Henry Rawlinson had prepared a message for all the troops in his Fourth Army:
In wishing all ranks good luck, the Army Commander desires to impress on all infantry units the supreme importance of helping one another and holding on tight to every yard of ground gained. The accurate and sustained fire of the artillery during the bombardment should greatly assist the task of the infantry.†
At 10.17 P.M. this not very stirring message was sent out to all units in the Fourth Army. In the 34th Division, opposite La Boisselle, a harrassed staff officer was afraid that the message might not reach the forward units by hand through the crush in the trenches. As a result, he transmitted it over a field telephone, although the use of this equipment for important messages was forbidden. It was suspected that the Germans had a listening post that could pick up such telephone conversations.
Rawlinson, too, made up his diary:
What the actual result will be, none can say, but I feel pretty confident of success myself, though only after heavy fighting. That the Boche will break and that a débâcle will supervene I do not believe, but, should this be the case, I am quite ready to take full advantage of it… The issues are in the hands of the Bon Dieu.
Back in the trenches the confusion was eventually sorted out and the soldiers reached their allotted positions. Then they settled down to get what rest they could. Even though the attack was due to begin in a few hours, the usual raids and patrols were sent out so as not to give the Germans the impression that this night was at all different from any others. Many last-minute attempts were made to destroy the German wire that was still standing. A Sheffield City Battalion patrol blew a gap in the German wire opposite them and then laid white tapes over No Man’s Land from the gap, as a guide to the attackers next morning. A patrol from the North Midland Division found a dip in No Man’s Land that could not be observed from the British trenches. In this hidden ground they discovered a wide belt of barbed wire, completely untouched by the bombardment.
Only a few men were engaged on these patrols. The majority could do nothing but wait. The trenches were very crowded and there was often no room to lie down. Some men did manage to doze, leaning against the side of the trench, but most of the attackers had to spend a sleepless night on their feet. Midnight passed: it was Saturday 1 July. In the 10th K.O.Y.L.I, the two King brothers, although in the same platoon, were separated by many men and were not able to meet. Dick King thought of his wife and children, especially the baby girl he had never seen, but also of his eldest daughter, Christine, realizing that today, 1 July, it was her ninth birthday. Percy Chappell, a veteran of many battles, thought of his wife at home in Somerset, but then he met four more old Regulars who had been out since the beginning and were all convinced ‘that they would draw their rations for a long time yet’. These five sat and chatted quietly and, as the talk got round to the battle, they lightheartedly suggested flowers which they might place on each other’s graves, the suggestions ranging from orchids to dandelions.
L/Cpl Charles Matthews and his section spent the night in a dug-out; they would move to a support trench at dawn. While they waited, an N.C.O. called and ordered one of the Northamptons to the rear. The others were first amazed and then envious to hear that the fortunate man was to go home on leave. Soon after this incident there was a loud report and a bullet ricocheted around the walls of the dug-out; a man’s rifle had gone off by mistake. After much cursing and shouting, it was discovered that only one man was slightly wounded, the man who had fired the shot. He too went to the rear, one of the first casualties of 1 July.
By 4 A.M. there was enough light to see the German lines. The day dawned calm, misty near the rivers but clear on the uplands. Then a light rain began to fall and there were fears of another wet day in spite of the forecasts. ‘It started to rain, so we got our dixies out and let the rain run into them from our tin hats. The rain didn’t last long, but we caught enough to quench our thirst.’ (Pte W. Gathercole, The Cambridge Battalion)
There were still two and a half hours before the usual morning barrage and three and a half before the infantry attack. Only at this stage were some men told the time of the attack. ‘Then came some news which really did put the wind up us. In early daylight, our company commander came on his visiting rounds and informed us that zero hour was at 7.30 A.M. Up to this time we had expected the attack would be made just before dawn, which was the usual time for such occasions. But 7.30 A.M., why that would be in broad daylight!’ (Pte A. V. Pearson, Leeds Pals)
Those belonging to the more efficient units received breakfast in various forms; the lucky ones had hot food. ‘I remember frying bacon over candles in the battalion H.Q. dug-out. The C.O. and several other officers were there and everyone was very cheerful. Morale was very high.’ (Lieut W. J. White, 3rd Tyneside Irish)
‘I was ordered to fetch the breakfast from the kitchens about a mile away. On the way back, in the trench, we came across a covey of young partridges and, as we walked along, we were driving them in front of us. A lot fell in a sump which was full of water so they would surely drown. But I could not see them drown, so I pulled the top off and got them out, put them in my steel helmet and lifted it up to the top of the trench. There, their mother was waiting and she chuckled them all together and off they went, never to be seen by us again.’ (Pte F. G. Foskett, 7th Bedfords)
What was more welcome than the food were the hot drinks. ‘Petrol tins of hot coffee with a lashing of rum arrived. As we were standing in water-logged trenches, feeling cold and miserable, this was acceptable; and who minded the flavour of petrol anyway?’ (L/Cpl W. Disney, 1/5th Sherwood Foresters)
Some units, for once, issued the men with as much rum as they wanted. Albert McMillan, looking round him in great excitement on his first morning in the trenches, was offered some, although he had never drunk it before. He took a large helping, which made him choke, but it cheered him up. Many of the younger soldiers had far too much rum with predictable results: ‘Now the first of many silly things happened. They had laced the tea with rum; the rum out there was the goods, real thick treacle stuff. I had one sip and, whoa, I wasn’t going to make myself muzzy for the job we were going on. Some chaps drank and had some more; they were soon tiddly. Two of them lay on the floor completely out. A sergeant major was kicking them both as they lay there to bring them round, although to no purpose.’ (Pte W. J. Senescall, The Cambridge Battalion) Some Bradford soldiers were very upset when a captain, who was known to be a strict teetotaller, tipped the surplus down a sump hole.
There were some battalions, however, whose men got nothing – no food, no drink and no rum. Bad organization by the rear parties, or bad luck as carriers lost their way in the maze of crowded trenches, meant that these faced the battle on an empty stomach. Lieut Philip Howe realized that his men’s rum ration was missing so he went to look for it and when he returned, successful, was very popular with his platoon.
The attacking troops took up their final positions. L/Cpl Charles Matthews led his section, already depleted by the loss of two men, from their dug-out to an assembly trench, behind the assault battalions they were to support. Matthews did not know that he was directly opposite the mine due to be blown at Kasino Point but, as he was not in the front line, he would be some distance from the explosion.
At 5.30 A.M. Reginald Bastard reported with his fellow battalion commanders to brigade H.Q. for a final conference. When the short discussion was over, those present checked their watches, wished each other luck and the four lieutenant-colonels set off back to their respective battalions.
The German artillery fire, which had not been heavy during the night, started to intensify. Some men wondered if the Germans knew or suspected that this was not just another day. Some British sectors escaped this fire but, on others, a steady barrage settled on trenches, approach roads and gun positions. The shelling caused surprise because the German batteries were thought to have been destroyed during the past week’s bombardment.
The soldiers huddled lower in their trenches but they were packed so tightly that the German shells could not fail to score hits. Already dead men were being thrown over the edge of the trenches and wounded sent to the rear. These last may have been the lucky ones; it was well known that the beginning of a battle was the best time to be wounded, with all the medical units waiting. The others could only endure the shelling and many wished for the attack to start; anything was better than waiting helplessly under the German shells.
In Thiepval Wood, Billy McFadzean and his fellow bombers were making their final preparations in a short, very narrow assembly trench. Boxes of grenades had been opened and the bombs were being distributed. Shells were falling here and there in the wood as the Germans searched for likely targets in the Ulster Division positions. The shelling had not yet stripped all the foliage from the trees and the bright, early morning sun threw dappled shadows over the Belfast men as they worked. Suddenly, a box of grenades fell to the floor of the trench. No one seems to know exactly how the accident happened; perhaps an explosion, closer than the rest, dislodged it; perhaps it was just knocked over in the cramped trench. But the fall had knocked the pins out of two grenades. In four seconds they would explode. In that crowded, enclosed space the effect would be disastrous. While some stared in horror at the small metal objects, McFadzean pushed himself forward and threw his body over the grenades. A moment later the live grenades exploded and Billy McFadzean was dead. In giving his own life, he had saved his friends, for only one other man in the trench was slightly hurt. The shocked Ulstermen laid the shattered body carefully aside, hoping that someone would be able to bury it later, then they finished sharing out the grenades and waited sadly for the battle to begin.*
Each day for the past week, the British artillery had fired an intensive bombardment starting at 6.25 A.M. and lasting until 7.45 A.M. On this morning the bombardment would lift from the German front line at 7.30 A.M., fifteen minutes earlier than usual. It was hoped that this would induce the Germans to stay in their dug-oats for a few vital minutes, instead of manning their trenches when the British attacked.
On those parts of the British line where the German shelling was not heavy, the period before their own bombardment started was quiet. ‘It was a perfect morning with a cloudless blue sky. There was not a breath of wind and one felt that it was going to be a very hot day. There was not a sound, it was weird, to say the least, so that when our main bombardment opened at 6.25 A.M. its effect was stupefying.’ (Pte J. G. Hanaghan, 3rd Liverpool Pals)
For most infantrymen this was their first close-up view of the British barrage. They were delighted. They could see, sometimes just 200 yards away, the shells pounding the German trenches; surely, when they went over in an hour’s time, nothing could stop them. The 1st Somerset Light Infantry sat on the parapet of their trench, cheering like mad, ‘just as though they were watching a firework display in a London park’.
Even at this comparatively late hour it was still misty in some places: ‘On the dawn patrol it was difficult to see what was happening on the ground. It was like looking at a bank of low cloud, but one could see ripples on the cloud from the terrific bombardment that was taking place below. It looked like a large lake of mist, with thousands of stones being thrown into it.’ (Lieut G. Chetwynd-Stapleton, 9 Squadron R.F.C.)
In some places, the British barrage provoked equally heavy German return fire. This was particularly so at Gommecourt but, as the two divisions there were supposed to draw fire onto themselves, they were fulfilling their part of the plan.
Bugler Bill Soar was at the receiving end of these German shells near Gommecourt and a man beside him was struck by a piece of hot shell casing, which remained embedded in his neck. Soar had been trained as a stretcher-bearer; he pressed his knees on either side of the man’s neck to slow the flow of blood and plucked the hot metal out, using his tunic to stop his fingers being burnt. As he did this, the wounded man screamed in agony, but Soar, with ‘Too late, pal’, dressed the wound. Having got permission from his platoon sergeant, Soar took the wounded man to the medical officer, but returned in time for the attack.
Again at Gommecourt: ‘One of my platoon officers checked his watch with me just before 7.30 A.M. He had just left me when he was hit by a shell and killed. There was nothing else for it but to take his place as he should have been leading the first wave. It wasn’t heroic, it was force majeure. It just had to be done.’ (Maj. C. J. Low, D.S.O., 1st London Scottish)
The patient British infantry were nearing the end of their long wait but it was now that the nervous tension pressed hardest upon them. Men knelt down and prayed – God seemed very near to them at this time; some took out their pay books and completed that page which contained a form for making out a will; others stared at photographs of their families which they kissed before returning to their pockets: ‘I myself gave a sad thought of home. At this particular time it would be milking time. The cows would be coming in from the meadows and everything would be lovely and peaceful at my father’s farm, in the little village at the foot of the Sperrin Mountains.’ (Pte L. Bell, Derry Volunteers)*
For some the strain was too much. The innocent Albert McMillan could not understand why a near-by sergeant shook more and more as zero hour approached. A man in the Cambridge Battalion went berserk; his pals were ordered to hold him down until they went over the top and then to leave him. Officers and N.C.O.’S did their best to calm and encourage their men. C.S.M. Percy Chappell made a last-minute round of his men. Most were calm but one young soldier was crying.
Not all were sad: two cheerful Bradford soldiers played a game juggling with hand grenades, quite confident the attack would be a walk-over. ‘ “Fix Bayonets” was carried out with much laughter and bravado. The rum had begun to work.’ (Cpl H. Beaumont, M.M., 1st Edinburgh City Battalion)
But the German shelling continued to take a toll on some sectors. ‘Jerry retaliated with his Whizz Bangs and shrapnel, he knew what we were up to, but, in spite of everything, we were still in one piece. Just after 7.00 A.M. Lieut Aird said, “Eastwood, go to number 7 Platoon on our left. Give my compliments to the platoon commander (mannerly under all circumstances) and tell him Zero Hour is at 7.30 A.M.” As I reached number 7 Platoon, the late lieutenant was being covered with a groundsheet. He had been killed instantly by shrapnel.’ (Pte J. Eastwood, 1st Salford Pals)
At 7.20 A.M. the British barrage reached a crescendo as the gunners poured shells at the maximum possible rate into the German lines. They were joined by the closer range trench-mortars, which could put down a furious barrage for short periods. The German front-line trenches, their redoubts and fortified villages were battered by an awesome intensity of fire which made even the most doubtful men more confident.
Paddy Kennedy and about twenty others had spent the night in a shallow tunnel which ran out into No Man’s Land from the front line. In the open end was a mortar and a big store of mortar ammunition. When the advance started, it would have been the duty of this half-platoon of Manchester men to carry this ammunition forward for the mortar crew. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion in the mortar post, the blast blew down the tunnel and the roof collapsed all around them. As it was being fired, one of their own mortar bombs had just grazed the edge of the gun pit. The resulting explosion had blown up the spare mortar bombs and killed all the mortar crew and some of the Manchesters. The remainder scrambled out as best they could and made their way back to the front line.
When the survivors had gained the cover of the trench, attended to the wounded and sent them to the rear, they found that out of the half-platoon there were only three unwounded privates, including Kennedy. There was no one to give them any orders and they had no idea what they were to do, so, like many others, they waited.
It was at about this time that the first infantrymen were allowed to move. A few commanders had decided to allow their leading waves to go out into No Man’s Land just before zero hour and lie down nearer the German trenches. The soldiers clambered up the ladders, filed through their own wire and then spread out into the straight lines required by the plan, before lying down to get what shelter they could in the open. The crescendo of fire falling on the German trenches ensured that most of these men forming up in No Man’s Land could do so in safety but some brave Germans were already manning their weapons. An observant officer in the 4th Middlesex estimated that his men were being fired on by at least six machine-guns, four from the ruins of Fricourt and two from the German trenches.
There remained one last act to be played out before the infantry attack opened – the blowing of the mines. Three large and seven small ones had been prepared at a vast expense in labour and with some loss of life; now the time had come to gain the benefit. The main salvo of mines was due to be blown at 7.28 A.M., allowing two minutes for the debris to settle before the infantry rushed the craters. There was one exception; the most northerly mine, that underneath the German redoubt on Hawthorn Ridge near Beaumont Hamel, was to be blown at 7.20 A.M. The decision to do this ten minutes before the infantry attack was a compromise between the corps commander, Lieut-Gen. Hunter-Weston, who wanted it blown several hours earlier and other officers who wanted a 7.28 A.M. firing. Hunter-Weston wanted his men to capture and consolidate the crater well before the main attack, but this was forbidden by G.H.Q. who thought that it would probably be the Germans who would take the crater.
The tunnellers had finished their work; the charges were ready and the circuits checked. The sapper officers knelt by their detonators anxiously looking at their watches, for in their job exact timing was vital. Above ground the infantry waited; many knew that mines were to be blown near them and were eager to see the results.
Opposite the Hawthorn Redoubt mine was young Albert McMillan, determined to miss nothing on this, his first day of war. He stood on the fire-step peering at the ridge only 500 yards away. Promptly at 7.20 A.M. the mine exploded and a huge column of earth and chalk spewed into the air.* McMillan was very impressed with the sight but also a little sobered. He realized for the first time the violence about to be released in the battle; maybe it wouldn’t be such a lark after all. He did not have long to enjoy the view; within a few seconds the shock waves passing through the ground reached his trench, making it sway from side to side and throwing him to the ground. McMillan lay on the floor of the trench, winded, his kit all around him. His platoon sergeant stood over him: ‘You silly little bastard.’
The decision to blow this mine at 7.20 A.M. had been unsound. Immediately the Germans put down a heavy artillery barrage on every British trench in the area. Their infantry too were alerted. ‘I watched the enormous core of earth go up and, within five minutes, it seemed that every Boche machine-gun was shooting full belt, the bullets simply whistling like hail over our position.’ (Capt. C. J. P. Ball, 15th Brigade R.H.A.)
Then, at 7.28 A.M., came the other mines, the biggest being the two on either side of the main road at La Boisselle, each with twenty-four tons of explosive. These were the largest mines that had been blown on the Western Front and the troops facing La Boisselle were a little anxious: ‘We knew precisely when it would explode. A private braced himself against the side of the trench with one leg placed against the other side. When the mine exploded, the shock waves actually fractured his leg below the knee and, I heard later, it had to be amputated.’ (Sgt H. Benzing, Grimsby Chums)
‘We were out in No Man’s Land, waiting. The whole world seemed to be moving; the earth moved sideways and back three times before the final explosion of the mine. I saw the debris rise hundreds of feet into the air and then it began to fall back with a noise rising above the bombardment. I thought, “This is it”, and buried my head underneath my tin hat and arms, waiting for the first clout. However it missed me but caught some of the men on my left.’ (Cpl H. Beaumont, M.M., 1st Edinburgh City Battalion)
Flying above La Boisselle was an R.F.C. machine and its pilot has described the scene from the air: ‘The whole earth heaved and flashed, a tremendous and magnificent column rose up into the sky. There was an ear-splitting roar, drowning all the guns, flinging the machine sideways in the reper-cussing air. The earth column rose higher and higher to almost 4,000 feet. There it hung, or seemed to hang, for a moment in the air, like the silhouette of some great cypress tree, then fell away in a widening cone of dust and debris. A moment later came the second mine. Again a roar, the up-flung machine, the strange giant silhouette invading the sky. Then the dust cleared and we saw the two white eyes of the craters.’ (2nd Lieut C. A. Lewis, 3 Squadron R.F.C.)*
There was now nothing between over 60,000 British soldiers in the eighteen miles of front-line trenches and the opening of the attack at 7.30 A.M. The men were ready, bayonets fixed, rifles loaded, the heavy uncomfortable packs finally adjusted. Young officers, many at school a year ago, stood with whistles in their mouths, looking at their watches as the last few seconds ticked away.
The battle was in the hands of these men, now; the generals could do nothing. For the first half hour it would not even be a battalion commander’s battle. The outcome would be decided by captains and second-lieutenants, lance corporals and privates. Hearts thud, stomachs turn. ‘For God’s sake, let us get going.’ (L/Cpl J. J. Cousins, 7th Bedfords)