Without more ado we shouted to each other our intention of making a dash for it, and jumping up we raced for our own lines in a hail of bullets. After a few steps I stumbled and fell into a small and shallow shell-hole, while the three others, thinking I was done for, careered past me. I flattened myself to the ground and let the bullets sweep over me through the long grass. The burning pieces of magnesium from the falling Verey lights, many of which burned out close to me, were not much pleasanter. Gradually the fire slackened, and after another quarter of an hour I crept from my refuge, slowly at first and then as fast as hands and knees would carry me. As the moon had set meanwhile, I soon lost all sense of direction, and had not the least idea where either English or Germans were. Not a glimpse could I see of Monchy Mill on the horizon. Now and then a shot from one side or the other whistled by with a very ugly sound. At last I lay down in the grass and determined to wait for dawn. Suddenly I heard a whisper close by me. Once more I put myself in fighting trim, and then prudently uttered a few sounds that might proceed equally from an Englishman or a German, determined to reply to the first word of English with a bomb. I was glad to find they were my own fellows, who were just unbuckling their belts to carry in my corpse on them. We sat together for a bit in the shell-hole and rejoiced over our fortunate reunion. Then we returned to our own trench, from which we had been absent three hours.
I was out again on trench duty at five. In No. 1 platoon I found Sergeant-major H. in front of his dugout. I was surprised to see him at this early hour, and he told me that he was lying in wait for an enormous rat whose gnawing and scratching prevented him sleeping. He took the opportunity of showing me his dugout, which was absurdly diminutive, and which he had christened the “bantam’s perch.”
While we were standing together there was a dull report which certainly did not betoken anything out of the way. H., who on the day before had very nearly stopped a large mortar-bomb and was consequently very nervous, went like a flash for the nearest dugout steps and, taking the first fifteen sitting, put the remainder to good use in three somersaults. I stood above in the entrance and laughed till I cried over this painful interruption of a rat-hunt. The poor victim meanwhile was tenderly rubbing various parts of his body and attempting to put back a dislocated thumb. The unlucky fellow told me that he had been sitting at his supper when the mortar-bomb arrived, and not only had his food been entirely smothered in dust, but on that occasion as well he had fallen downstairs.
After this enlivening interlude I repaired to my dugout, but I was not destined today, either, to have the refreshment of sleep. From early morning we were bombarded by trench-mortars with ever-lessening intervals. Towards midday it got too lively for me altogether. With the help of a few men I got our Lanz mortar into action and started firing on the enemy trenches. It was, I must say, but a poor return for the heavy stuff with which we were so generously favoured. We crouched on the sun-cracked ground in our little gun-pit, and sweating sent over bomb after bomb. The English were not at all put out, so I had recourse with Lieutenant Wetje to the telephone, and after mature consideration sent off the following S.O.S.: “Helen is spitting into our trenches. Nothing but great big bits. We want potatoes all sizes.”
We had recourse to this rigmarole in case the enemy might be listening in. Very soon there came the comforting reply from Lieutenant Deichmann that the fat sergeant-major with the stiff moustache and a few of his younger brothers were coming forward. Immediately after, the first of our two-hundredweight bombs hurtled into the enemy’s trench with an incredible detonation. It was followed by a few salvoes from the field artillery, and after that we had peace for the rest of the day.
At noon next day, however, the ball was opened in an even livelier fashion. At the first shot I went by my underground gallery to the second line, and from there to the communication trench where we had made our mortar emplacement. We opened fire, and for every toffee-apple that came over we returned a Lanz. After we had exchanged about forty bombs it appeared that the enemy had marked us down and was aiming for us. Soon they fell to right and left of us. But we kept on firing till one came straight for us. We pulled through our trigger-line once more at the last moment and then ran for it. I had just reached a muddy trench blocked with wire when the brute exploded close behind me. The rush of air sent me flying over a bundle of barbed wire into a shell-hole full of green slime, with a shower of hard clods hurtling after me. I got up half-stunned. I was in evil plight. Breeches and boots were ripped with barbed wire. My face and hands and uniform were plastered with mud, and one knee was bleeding from a long scratch. Somewhat put out of action, I crept back along the trenches to get a little rest.
Apart from this the enemy’s fire
