The Battle of the Somme - attack on Regina Trench

- As submitted by his daughter, Mary Harris of Ottawa October 2/3, 1916: The country around Ovillers and Pozieres had been pretty well cleaned up but as we got into the area where the fighting had been continuous during the past week there was ample evidence of the deadly work that had been going on there. It was possible to read the story of attack and defence by the grouping of the dead. Here was the assault trench, broken by shell holes, each one with its circle of mangled and half-buried bodies: the German counter-barrage had been accurate. Immediately in front of the assault trench the ground was clear - it had been crossed before the enemy had had time to bring his machine guns and rifles into action. Then for fifty yards the rich harvest reaped by machine guns playing on massed men lay thick on the ground. But at one spot there were few dead: our artillery had made at least a dozen direct hits on about fifty yards of German trench. There had been no one left to resist: our men were in. But what of that circle of huddled bodies on the left? About what deadly centre had this line been drawn? A machine gun superbly handled stopped everything there. It was never reached from in front: the gunners were shot or bayoneted by our men coming in from the flanks. They died on their gun. And those men half kneeling, half lying in grotesque attitudes? The wire had not been cut in front of them: that is what is holding them up. They died on the wire, the worst fate a soldier could suffer.

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And thus it went. The story to which we were soon to add another paragraph, lay written for anyone to read, and so we cursed and joked and took very good care not to read it. Our front line and the part of Regina Trench facing my battalion lay on opposite sides of a slight rise and as a result it was impossible in many places to see one trench from the other. Behind our line the land sloped gently and our support line, about four hundred yards in the rear, was in plain view of the Germans. C and D Companies moved into the supports on the night of October first while A and B Companies took over part of the front line from which the attack was to be made. Early the next day one platoon from my company (C Company) was sent up to fill in on the right flank of the attack. I must have been suffering from indigestion or some other depressing ailment, for I had a presentiment, amounting to certainty, that I should be killed during this attack. This was the first, and fortunately, the only time that I had such a feeling. I wrote the letters generally considered appropriate for such feelings and sent them to a friend at Battalion Headquarters, to be posted, or not, according to what fate had in store for me during the next twenty-four hours. I had known quite a few who at various times had had such presentiments and I also knew that they were as often wrong as right; but statistics are poor consolation when you feel that way. The average infantryman was sure that he would be killed sometime, but generally he looked upon that sometime as later rather than sooner; not today or tomorrow, but in the indefinite future. After all, he had only carried over into the war the ordinary human being's attitude towards death: something inevitable but not immediate. My platoon was in the support line and since there were good dugouts we were almost sure to miss the counter-barrage that would fall on our trenches as soon as our own barrage began. That was all to the good, but still my presentiment was with me. There was too little to do in the support line, too much time for speculation. But that state of affairs was soon changed. The attack was to be at four PM and at about three-thirty a rush order came to get my platoon into position in the front line in time to go over with the attack. From that moment my presentiment disappeared and I heard no more of it until I remembered it with surprise two weeks later in England. The platoon on the left flank had been almost wiped out by two or three direct hits on the trench and we were to take its place; or rather to come in on the left, since it could no longer cover the ground allotted. The only officer in the company, other than the Company Commander, had already gone up with the platoon for the right flank, so I was once more in charge of my platoon, and once more there was every sign of dirty work ahead. The Company Sergeant-Major saw to loading up the platoon with all the extras in the form of bombs, ammunition, food, shovels, etc, that men must encumber themselves with when making an attack. While he was doing this, the Company Commander showed me a trench map of the part of the line where we were to attack. He also gave me some information that he said had better not be passed on to the men: the wire in front of that part of the German line had not been cut! The attack, however, would have to be made so as not to let down the battalions on our flanks. Our part in the show was to be a real sacrifice part: it was a wonder that my presentiment didn't come back! We had to go about a half mile to get into our positions. The communication trench connecting the supports with the front line was only a hastily dug ditch, not more than three feet deep, and there was a ninety foot unprotected gap in the front line that had to be crossed somehow. We were due to be in position ready to go over the top in twenty minutes, so there was no time to waste. The shelling on both sides was gradually working up to the usual hell that preceded and accompanied an attack, so there was a fair chance that few Germans would be on the lookout. We simply walked down the CT with our heads and shoulders in full sight. And nothing happened. When we came to the gap in the front line more care was necessary. We went across two at a time, with one starting when the other was almost across. The nearer each man got to the other side the faster he ran, until finally he gave a wild dive into the protection of the trench. If we had to be targets we were determined to be difficult ones and in spite of the odd sixty pounds or so of impediments that each of us carried, we made record time across that thirty yards. Each runner was cheered profanely by those waiting to go across and given a ribald welcome by those who had preceded him. Nothing could have happened better. We arrived at our attack stations only a few minutes before the zero hour and still laughing at the antics of some of the runners: no time to worry. There was only one thing wrong: C Company had had no rum to send up with us, A Company had none to spare. We had to go over without the usual shot. This was a real hardship, but not as bad as it would have been had we been waiting there all day for the zero hour. Two minutes to go! The shelling on both sides was at its maximum. Our barrage had been going for about three minutes and the German counter-barrage for a minute or less. It was impossible to hear anyone speak; the air was full of dust, dirt and smoke; whole sections of our trench, crowded with men, went up into the air as salvos of 5.9s made direct hits on our position. No use to worry where the next one was going to land: they were landing everywhere. Ten seconds to go: thank God we'll soon be out of this! How many of the platoon are left? What luck! Hardly a man has been hit yet. Have I a cartridge in the chamber? Is the safety catch off? Time! Over we go! As far as one could see along the trench men were climbing up over the parapet and starting across no man's land at a half run, half walk. At first nothing happened, for our barrage had just lifted from the German front line and their machine guns and men were not yet up from their deep dugouts. Also in many places the rise in the ground still hid us from their sight. Thirty yards, forty yards, and then a machine gun opened up; then another, and another. I noticed in a detached way that most of the men who went down didn't move after falling, and that the report about the wire was correct, it hadn't been cut. We eased off slightly to the left, where there appeared to be a hole in the wire, and when just outside the wire got into shell holes while we took a look around - from the cover of the shell holes, of course. The trench, about sixty or seventy feet in front of us, was full of Germans, but there were apparently no machine guns there, and for some unknown reason they were trying to reach us with potato masher bombs instead of using their rifles. There were five of us in that particular shell hole and we had marvelous target practice: it was like knocking over the figures in a shooting gallery. I remember giving one of the five with me the devil for shooting so near my ear that he deafened me. He said he was sorry! We finally decided that it might be possible to get through the wire at a place almost directly in front of us and that the thing to do was to direct as many as possible to that spot. We got out of our shell hole ready to go forward and then and there got one of the greatest surprises of our lives: we were the only ones in sight. A quick survey of the neighboring shell holes showed nothing but dead and wounded men. Even then we though that someone must have ordered a retreat. We were all keyed up to fighting pitch by now and cursed those who, as we thought, had let us down. We were mad clean through, so mad that we forgot to be afraid and simply walked back to our trench, refusing to run. Still crazy, I walked along the parapet of our trench looking for the person who had ordered the retreat. Before I had covered half the distance I began to come to my senses and appreciate what had happened. There had been no retreat ordered: practically all the men were still out there, dead or wounded. A rapid survey showed that there were twenty-five unwounded men left of the half battalion that had made the attack. There were no officers and I was the senior and almost the only NCO. Fortunately there was a first-aid corporal still with us, so it was possible to fix up all those who could travel on their own and send them on their way. Some didn't even wait to be bandaged: anyone with a nice "blighty" and even one good leg could generally manage to get away with surprising speed. All that we could do with the badly wounded was to fix them up as well as possible and put them in the best-protected parts of the trench to wait for stretcher-bearers to come up from the rear. Two wounded officers who were able to walk out, left water bottles full of run with me, so in that respect we were well fortified. Otherwise we were not so fortunate. The attack had apparently been a failure all along the line and there was every possibility of the Germans making a counterattack at any time. To meet this we had twenty-five tired and badly shaken men, no machine guns and practically no bombs. The shelling was still very heavy and it was rapidly becoming dark. We divided the men into groups of four or five and posted them in the undamaged parts of the trench along our front. In spite of the heavy shelling they were placed in small groups rather than stretched out along the line, since company at such a time is the best medicine. Rutherford, who had been made a corporal, had been with me all day, so he and I and the stretcher-bearer formed a little headquarters of our own in the center of the line. Dead men lying around are not pleasant company under the best of circumstances, but when they are from your own battalion it is much worse. We managed to get them all out of the trench and piled up on the parados or parapets. One man's head flopped over as I was helping to throw him out and his sharp front teeth cut the back of my hand. The shelling, although much less intense, persisted in its most nerve-wracking form: that is, one or two good-sized shells every three or four minutes. Plenty of time in-between to wonder when and where the next one would fall. We had a few casualties from these shells but not many: there was plenty of room in our line for shells to land without hitting anyone. Each time one fell near a group we got to them as soon as possible and gave each man a good issue of rum: nothing like rum to take the edge off nerves. Our own bit of trench was blown in and a wounded man whom we had placed near us was terribly mangled. We tied him together as best we could and tried to give him some morphia tablets, but he couldn't swallow them. There was nothing more that we could do for him. He lasted three hours: I have never heard a man die so hard. Early in the night Rutherford went across no man's land well to our right to find out whether by any chance the battalion on that front had managed to get into Regina Trench. After getting close enough to be fired on by the Germans and thus to be sure of the information he was after, he came back and asked me what he should do next. I suggested that he go to the other end of our line to see how the men there were getting on. After he left, one of the men came and told me that Rutherford had been shot through the arm while on this scouting trip. He hadn't said a word about it to me. When I told him to go out to the dressing station he was most reluctant to go and I had finally to order him out. With Rutherford gone things were not so bright but at about midnight a D Company sergeant arrived with a platoon to reinforce us. He also brought up some food, and since his men were comparatively fresh the affair began to take on a cheerier aspect. We redistributed the men along the trench and settled down to make the best of a none too pleasant situation. Still, some of us had seen worse, and in all probability we would be relieved before morning. At about two AM there was a great bustle along the trench and our OC appeared with a platoon of the First CMR that he had "borrowed". His plan was to get into Regina Trench at some point and make a bombing attack down the trench, with the idea of finding out just what was going on along the line. He had heard that we had discovered a hole in the wire during the attack and was anxious to know whether I could guide a platoon through it in the dark. I can't say that I felt very enthusiastic about the plan but I was fairly certain that I could find the break in the wire again, so we started across no man's land. We were organized as a bombing party. The OC undertook to do the bombing - at which he was an expert - and, at his suggestion, I was to be his first bayonet man. Not a job that I felt any great longing to have at the time, but there seemed no particular reason why I shouldn't do it, so that was that. There was a regular formation for bombing parties. In front came the first bayonet man, then the first bomb thrower, then a bomb carrier, and this order was duplicated in the ranks following. The bomber tossed a bomb or two over the traverse of a trench and as soon as the bomb exploded the first bayonet man rushed around the corner and finished off - or was finished off by - anyone who still showed signs of resisting. If a member of the first team was put out of action the corresponding man in each team moved up one. This was the theory, but like most theories it worked best when being practiced behind the line and by daylight. At night and in a strange and badly smashed up trench anything was apt to happen - and generally did. It was difficult to keep in contact either with the enemy or with one's own men and the only thing that prevented the majority of such attacks from failing was that they were surprises and the Germans became even more disorganized than the attacking force. A well-planned raid was of course a different matter, not at all like the sort of dog-fight bombing attacks that occurred again and again during big attacks. Attacks such as this, on a dark night, in strange trenches, were deadly affairs. Unlike a raid, it was not desirable to take prisoners, nor was it practicable. Wounded men were often killed, for who could tell whether the dim figure moving in front was wounded and trying to surrender or was about to poke a bayonet into you? There was one consoling thought that I took with me as bayonet man: the OC was a fine revolver shot and I knew that when I went around a corner he would be so close behind me that if there were not more than two to deal with I'd have an even chance. As a matter of fact, he shot by my head so many times that one of my ears was almost completely deaf for three days afterwards. We had no trouble finding the lane in the wire: a shower of bombs cleared the trench in front of us, and we were in before the Germans knew what was happening. Then began the job of bombing up the trench. A bayonet man seldom used the bayonet: a bullet at close range was much more effective, since it was very difficult to withdraw a bayonet once it had been well stuck into a man. That night for the first and only time in the war, I used the bayonet, but only once. I didn't like the noise he made. After bombing along a few bays the trench seemed deserted, so we climbed up on the parapet and followed it until we met more resistance. Then we jumped into the trench and started the bombing game again. All the bombing wasn't on our side: a German bomb went off close enough so that I could feel the heat on my face and was almost knocked over by the concussion, but by a miracle I wasn't hurt. The German bombs were nowhere near as good as our Mills number 5s. The game of "in and out" went on for some time and our ranks were gradually being thinned out. Once more I slid into the trench but this time I felt a sudden sharp pain in my right leg and fell on my side on the bottom of the trench. I could see nothing but I reached down and found that a bayonet was sticking into my right thigh near the hip. Some German had either been killed or in the excitement of the attack had left his rifle, with fixed bayonet, leaning against the parapet; and in the dark I had most obligingly impaled myself upon it! A bit of an anti-climax perhaps, but nonetheless uncomfortable for that. Apparently no one had noticed me, which was not to be wondered at in the excitement and dark. The bayonet came out without much trouble or pain. Fortunately it had hit the bone, or I should have been properly skewered. My leg seemed quite all right to stand on and after poking around with my finger I decided that I wasn't bleeding very badly. There was no sound or sign of the bombing party and it seemed a good idea to get out of the trench before the Germans decided to come back. It also seemed the appropriate moment for a good rum issue. I took it in the form of a toast, " Here's to Blighty: the sooner I get there the better I'll like it." I decided that the first port of call would be my old headquarters in the front line, where there was a stretcher-bearer who could bandage my leg. Also from that point I would know the way out to Battalion Headquarters. But finding the way back was not so easy. The night had become unusually quiet; shell holes and scraps of wire forced one to be continually changing direction, and after fifteen minutes of wandering around I knew that I had either become confused in my direction or had walked through a gap in our own front line. The latter seemed the more likely explanation so I turned about and headed for where I thought the front line might be. The area behind the line was a regular wilderness in which one might wander around for hours without meeting anyone, and with a leg rapidly growing stiff I had no desire to do that. Finally I stumbled into a trench and found some of my battalion there. They were D Company men whom I didn't know, so I simply asked them to show me where Sergeant Savage's headquarters was. My stretcher-bearer corporal was surprised to see me: someone who had come back wounded from Regina Trench had told him that I had been killed. He bandaged up my leg as well as he could in the dark and I set out to find the advanced dressing station. I took no chances on getting lost this time and carefully followed first the front line and then the communication trench. Charles H. Savage fought with the 5th Canadian Mounted Rifles in the trenches of France and Belgium between 1915 and 1918. He was an expert in gas warfare and fought at Ypres, the Somme and in other major engagements, rising through the ranks to Sergeant, before being commissioned to Lieutenant. Regina Trench, referenced in the above excerpt, was the longest German trench on the front and stood well supported behind barbed-wire and machine guns. Savage was later Principal of Westmount Junior High School in Westmount, Quebec (then separate from Montreal) and lived out his later years in Grand’mere, Quebec.