loud enough for the clutch of officers beside him to hear.
‘How will they perform?’ he was asked by the less senior officer who was also watching the advance.
‘I suspect as well as the Canadians and South Africans we have faced in the past,’ Kurt von Fellmann replied. ‘The British colonials are all volunteers and have a character that makes them adapt to war very well.’
Kurt turned to the officer. ‘Ensure that communications with our reserves is kept intact at all costs,’ he said, knowing that they may be critical in any possible breakthrough of his forward defensive trenches. ‘Even if you have to crawl out there and check the telephone wires yourself.’
The officer saluted and hurried away to organise a party to check the buried telephone lines had not been cut by artillery fire from the enemy positions, leaving Kurt alone to resume surveying the assault on his lines.
‘Colonel Duffy,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I pray that God will spare you in your foolish venture.’
But God was asleep that day and the carnage had begun as if orchestrated by the devil.
The German staff officer located the regimental runner behind the lines and passed on the message to their signalmen to keep a check on the lines, ensuring that they remained intact. The staff officer did not know the runner but history would one day record him as the devil incarnate. His name was Adolf Hitler and although many of his countrymen were soon to die, he would survive the terrible battle of Fromelles.
The machine gun firing from high ground tore through the ranks of Sean’s company. His company sergeant major, a former British army NCO, had bullets rip through his legs, chest and jaw only a few yards from Sean. In the blink of an eye the CSM shuddered, fell and remained still. The loss of the man who had survived the Dardanelles campaign came as a shock to Sean, who had convinced himself the strong, solid professional soldier could never die. All around him others fell; some screamed, some died silently as bullets cut through them. The 200 yards might well have been two miles. Time lost meaning and the rapid beat of his heart and laboured breathing of his lungs were the only sounds Sean could hear as they advanced at a rapid walk.
He could now actually see the enemy standing at their parapets, firing rifles and tossing the long-handled grenades in swirling arcs through the air towards the clusters of soldiers attacking them, and he felt numb from the tension of waiting for the bullet or shrapnel meant to kill or maim him. His company headquarters was now reduced to himself, Corporal Kelly and a private who was also his runner. In a brief lucid moment he attempted to assess the situation and became aware that he could no longer see the platoon that he had attached his company HQ to. Even his runner seemed to have disappeared, leaving him and the South Australian corporal alone, facing the zigzag of German forward trenches. Sean was hardly aware that he had not fired his revolver although he could hear and see Corporal Kelly stopping to aim and fire at the head and shoulders of the German infantry on the parapets before them. His accurate fire appeared to be telling as men disappeared whenever Jack Kelly fired.
The artillery bombardment had succeeded in tearing apart barbed wire directly in front of Sean’s company and those of his men who survived were able to clamber into the German forward dugouts where savage hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Both Sean and Jack found themselves tumbling into a trench and when they were on their feet realised that they had become well and truly separated from the rest of the company. Bodies of German soldiers lay in heaps around them, mutilated by the explosive artillery shells that had fallen among them. One or two were still alive but not in any position to pose a threat. Jack laid down his rifle and immediately hefted out two hand grenades from the bag he carried. The primed bombs were in
‘How will they perform?’ he was asked by the less senior officer who was also watching the advance.
‘I suspect as well as the Canadians and South Africans we have faced in the past,’ Kurt von Fellmann replied. ‘The British colonials are all volunteers and have a character that makes them adapt to war very well.’
Kurt turned to the officer. ‘Ensure that communications with our reserves is kept intact at all costs,’ he said, knowing that they may be critical in any possible breakthrough of his forward defensive trenches. ‘Even if you have to crawl out there and check the telephone wires yourself.’
The officer saluted and hurried away to organise a party to check the buried telephone lines had not been cut by artillery fire from the enemy positions, leaving Kurt alone to resume surveying the assault on his lines.
‘Colonel Duffy,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I pray that God will spare you in your foolish venture.’
But God was asleep that day and the carnage had begun as if orchestrated by the devil.
The German staff officer located the regimental runner behind the lines and passed on the message to their signalmen to keep a check on the lines, ensuring that they remained intact. The staff officer did not know the runner but history would one day record him as the devil incarnate. His name was Adolf Hitler and although many of his countrymen were soon to die, he would survive the terrible battle of Fromelles.
The machine gun firing from high ground tore through the ranks of Sean’s company. His company sergeant major, a former British army NCO, had bullets rip through his legs, chest and jaw only a few yards from Sean. In the blink of an eye the CSM shuddered, fell and remained still. The loss of the man who had survived the Dardanelles campaign came as a shock to Sean, who had convinced himself the strong, solid professional soldier could never die. All around him others fell; some screamed, some died silently as bullets cut through them. The 200 yards might well have been two miles. Time lost meaning and the rapid beat of his heart and laboured breathing of his lungs were the only sounds Sean could hear as they advanced at a rapid walk.
He could now actually see the enemy standing at their parapets, firing rifles and tossing the long-handled grenades in swirling arcs through the air towards the clusters of soldiers attacking them, and he felt numb from the tension of waiting for the bullet or shrapnel meant to kill or maim him. His company headquarters was now reduced to himself, Corporal Kelly and a private who was also his runner. In a brief lucid moment he attempted to assess the situation and became aware that he could no longer see the platoon that he had attached his company HQ to. Even his runner seemed to have disappeared, leaving him and the South Australian corporal alone, facing the zigzag of German forward trenches. Sean was hardly aware that he had not fired his revolver although he could hear and see Corporal Kelly stopping to aim and fire at the head and shoulders of the German infantry on the parapets before them. His accurate fire appeared to be telling as men disappeared whenever Jack Kelly fired.
The artillery bombardment had succeeded in tearing apart barbed wire directly in front of Sean’s company and those of his men who survived were able to clamber into the German forward dugouts where savage hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Both Sean and Jack found themselves tumbling into a trench and when they were on their feet realised that they had become well and truly separated from the rest of the company. Bodies of German soldiers lay in heaps around them, mutilated by the explosive artillery shells that had fallen among them. One or two were still alive but not in any position to pose a threat. Jack laid down his rifle and immediately hefted out two hand grenades from the bag he carried. The primed bombs were in
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