So High Wood became another hell, on a day of great battle—September 14, 1916—when for the first time tanks were used, demoralizing the enemy in certain places, though they were too few in number to strike a paralyzing blow. The Londoners gained part of High Wood at frightful cost and then were blown out of it. Other divisions followed them and found the wood stuffed with machine-guns which they had to capture through hurricanes of bullets before they crouched in craters amid dead Germans and dead English, and then were blown out like the Londoners, under shellfire, in which no human life could stay for long.
The 7th Division was cut up there. The 33rd Division lost six thousand men in an advance against uncut wire in the wood, which they were told was already captured.
Hundreds of men were vomiting from the effect of gas-shells, choking and blinded. Behind, the transport wagons and horses were smashed to bits.
The divisional staffs were often ignorant of what was happening to the fighting-men when the attack was launched. Light signals, rockets, heliographing, were of small avail through the dust- and smoke-clouds. Forward observing officers crouching behind parapets, as I often saw them, and sometimes stood with them, watched fires burning, red rockets and green, gusts of flame, and bursting shells, and were doubtful what to make of it all. Telephone wires trailed across the ground for miles, were cut into short lengths by shrapnel and high explosive. Accidents happened as part of the inevitable blunders of war. It was all a vast tangle and complexity of strife.
On July 17th I stood in a tent by a staff-officer who was directing a group of heavy guns supporting the 3rd Division. He was tired, as I could see by the black lines under his eyes and tightly drawn lips. On a camp-table in front of him, upon which he leaned his elbows, there was a telephone apparatus, and the little bell kept ringing as we talked. Now and then a shell burst in the field outside the tent, and he raised his head and said: “They keep crumping about here. Hope they won’t tear this tent to ribbons. … That sounds like a gas-shell.”
Then he turned to the telephone again and listened to some voice speaking.
“Yes, I can hear you. Yes, go on. ‘Our men seen leaving High Wood.’ Yes. ‘Shelled by our artillery.’ Are you sure of that? I say, are you sure they were our men? Another message. Well, carry on. ‘Men digging on road from High Wood southeast to Longueval.’ Yes, I’ve got that. ‘They are our men and not Boches.’ Oh, hell! … Get off the line. Get off the line, can’t you? … ‘Our men and not Boches.’ Yes, I have that. ‘Heavily shelled by our guns.’ ”
The staff-officer tapped on the table with a lead-pencil a tattoo, while his forehead puckered. Then he spoke into the telephone again.
“Are you there, ‘Heavies’? … Well, don’t disturb those fellows for half an hour. After that I will give you new orders. Try and confirm if they are our men.”
He rang off and turned to me.
“That’s the trouble. Looks as if we had been pounding our own men like hell. Some damn fool reports ‘Boches.’ Gives the reference number. Asks for the ‘Heavies.’ Then some other fellow says: ‘Not Boches. For God’s sake cease fire!’ How is one to tell?”
I could not answer that question, but I hated the idea of our men sent forward to capture a road or a trench or a wood and then “pounded” by our guns. They had enough pounding from the enemy’s guns. There seemed a missing link in the system somewhere. Probably it was quite inevitable.
Over and over again the wounded swore to God that they had been shelled by our own guns. The Londoners said so from High Wood. The Australians said so from Mouquet Farm. The Scots said so from Longueval! They said: “Why the hell do we get murdered by British gunners? What’s the good of fighting if we’re slaughtered by our own side?”
In some cases they were mistaken. It was enfilade fire from German batteries. But often it happened according to the way of that telephone conversation in the tent by Bronfay Farm.
The difference between British soldiers and German soldiers crawling over shell-craters or crouching below the banks of a sunken road was no more than the difference between two tribes of ants. Our flying scouts, however low they flew, risking the Archies and machine-gun bullets, often mistook khaki for field gray, and came back with false reports which led to tragedy.
XI
People who read my war despatches will remember my first descriptions of the tanks and those of other correspondents. They caused a sensation, a sense of excitement, laughter which shook the nation because of the comicality, the grotesque surprise, the possibility of quicker victory, which caught hold of the imagination of people who heard for the first time of those new engines of war, so beast-like in appearance and performance. The vagueness of our descriptions was due to the censorship, which forbade, wisely enough, any technical and exact definition, so that we had to compare them to giant toads, mammoths, and prehistoric animals of all kinds. Our accounts did, however, reproduce the psychological effect of the tanks upon the British troops when these engines appeared for the first time to their astonished gaze on September 13th. Our soldiers roared with laughter, as I did, when they saw them lolloping up the roads. On the morning of the great battle of September 15th the presence of the tanks going into action excited all the troops along the front with a sense of comical relief in the midst of the grim and deadly business of attack. Men followed them, laughing and cheering. There was a wonderful thrill in the airman’s message, “Tank walking up the High Street of Flers with the British army cheering behind.”
