Introduction

This account of a night time raid is by an American journalist, Charles Yale Harrison.  The story is a novel, but it is based on the author's own experiences in combat; Harrison fought with the 244th Overseas Battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force in 1917, and was wounded in the Battle of Amiens.

This is the first lesson on the feelings of the soldiers who fought on the Western Front.

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1.  from Charles Yale Harrison,  Generals Die in Bed (1930)

We are lying out in front of our wire, waiting for the signal to leap up.  It is quiet.  Now and then a white Verrey light sizzles into the air and illuminates the field as though it were daytime.

We lie perfectly still.

Over in the German lines we hear voices – they are about fifty yards from where we now lie.

I look at the phosphorescent lights on the face of my watch.

Two minutes to go.

MacLeod, the officer in charge of the raiding party, crawls over to where we lie and gives us a last warning.

"Remember," he whispers, "red flares on our parapets is the signal to come back…"

In that instant the sky behind is stabbed with a thousand flashes of flame.

The earth shakes.

The air hisses, whistles, screams over our heads.

They are firing right into the trenches in front of us.

Clouds of earth leap into the air.

The barrage lasts a minute and then lifts to cut off the enemy's front line from his supports.

In that moment we spring up.

We fire as we run.

The enemy has not had time to get back on his firing-steps. There is no reply to our fire.

We race on.

Fifty yards – forty yards – thirty yards!

My brain is unnaturally cool. I think to myself: This is a raid, you ought to be excited and nervous. But I am calm.

Twenty yards!

I can see the neatly-piled sandbags on the enemy parapets. Our guns are still thundering behind us.

Suddenly yellow, blinding bursts of flame shoot up from the ground in front of us.

Above the howl of the artillery I hear a man scream as he is hit.

Hand grenades!

We race on. We fire our rifles from the hip as we run.

The grenades cease to bark.

Ten yards!

With a yell we plunge towards the parapets and jump, bayonets first, into the trench.

Two men are in the bay into which we leap.

Half a dozen of our men fall upon them and stab them down into a corner.

I run down the trench looking for prisoners.

Each man is for himself.

I am alone.

I turn the corner of a bay. My bayonet points forward – on guard.

I proceed cautiously.

Something moves in the corner of the bay. It is a German. I recognize the pot-shaped helmet.

I lunge forward, aiming at his stomach. It is a lightning, instinctive movement. In that second he twists and reaches for his revolver.

The thrust jerks on my body. Something heavy collides with the point of my weapon.

I become insane.

I want to strike again and again. But I cannot.

My bayonet does not come clear.

I pull, tug, jerk. It does not come out.

I have caught him between his ribs.

The bones grip my blade. I cannot withdraw.

Of a sudden I hear him shriek. It sounds far-off as though heard in the moment of waking from a dream.

I have a man at the end of my bayonet, I say to myself. His shrieks become louder and louder.

We are facing each other – four feet of space separates us.

His eyes are distended; they seem all whites, and look as though they will leap out of their sockets.

There is froth in the corners of his mouth which opens and shuts like that of a fish out of water.

His hands grasp the barrel of my rifle and he joins me in the effort to withdraw. I do not know what to do.

He looks at me piteously.

I put my foot up against his body and try to kick him off. He shrieks into my face.

He will not come off.

I kick him again and again. No use.

His howling unnerves me. I feel I will go insane if I stay in this hole much longer.

It is too much for me. Suddenly I drop the butt of my rifle. He collapses into the corner of the bay. His hands still grip the barrel. I start to run down the bay.

A few steps and I turn the corner.

I am in the next bay. I am glad I cannot see him. I am bewildered.

Out of the roar of the bombardment I think I hear voices. In a flash I remember that I am unarmed. My rifle – it stands between me and death – and it is in the body of him who lies there trying to pull it out.

I am terrified.

If they come here and find me they will stab me just as I stabbed him – and maybe in the ribs, too.

I run back a few paces but I cannot bring myself to turn the corner of the bay in which he lies. I hear his calls for help. The other voices sound nearer.

I am back in the bay.

He is propped up against his parados. The rifle is in such a position that he cannot move. His neck is limp and he rolls his head over his chest until he sees me.

Behind our lines the guns light the sky with monster dull red flashes. In this flickering light this German and I enact our tragedy.

I move to seize the butt of my rifle. Once more we are face to face.

He grabs the barrel with a childish movement which seems to say: You may not take it, it is mine. I push his hands away. I pull again.

My tugging and pulling works the blade in his insides.

Again those horrible shrieks!

I place the butt of the rifle under my arm and turn away, trying to drag the blade out. It will not come.

I think. I can get it out if I unfasten the bayonet from the rifle.

But I cannot go through with the plan, for the blade is in up to the hilt and the wound which I have been clumsily mauling is now a gaping hole. I cannot put my hand there.

Suddenly I remember what I must do. I turn round and pull my breech-lock back. The click sounds sharp and clear.

He stops his screaming. He looks at me, silently now.

He knows what I am going to do.

A white Verrey light soars over our heads. His helmet has fallen from his head. I see his boyish face. He looks like a Saxon; he is fair and under the light I see white down against green cheeks.

I pull my trigger. There is a loud report. The blade at the end of my rifle snaps in two. He falls into the corner of the bay and rolls over. He lies still.

I am free.

Interrogating the source:

Looking at all the details of its provenance, how true do you think this account is likely to be? 

Going over the top:

This sequence of 1916 film shows soldiers 'going over the top' at the Battle of the Somme. It looks like this is footage of an actual attack, but it may have been set up specially behind the lines; it was very dangerous to film the real thing.