mining villages and the canal, he could just make out the dark lines of shallow trenches dug into a ridge of coal spoil and the heads of men crouched in them. It seemed to him a pathetically thin line, more a series of isolated posts with nothing to back them â but apparently this was the best that could be arranged. Only yesterday, they had been marching forward, confident that they were advancing to join their French allies and roll back the German attackers. Then, suddenly, the orders had been countermanded. They were to stop where they were and dig in. No one seemed to know why. Tom took his sketch pad out of his rucksack and flexed his chilled fingers. If this was going to be the British Expeditionary Forceâs first battle, he would have a birdâs-eye view of it. He headed the first page Mons, Belgium â Sunday 23 August .
A movement away to his right caught his eye. A company of cavalry came cantering out of the mist, heading towards the trenches. At first Tom thought they were British, a reconnaissance party coming to report; then he saw that the uniforms were wrong. French, possibly? Or Belgian? Then there was a boom that made him jump and he saw smoke billowing up from an artillery position on the right flank and a gout of earth shot up just in front of the advancing horsemen. âBoche, by God!â he said aloud. The rest of the guns had joined in by now and Tom saw shells falling among the horses. For a brief moment it seemed the riders intended to come on, regardless, then they wheeled away and galloped off into the trees. âFirst blood to us,â Tom muttered, sketching busily.
He had no time to complete the picture. As if the initial gunfire had been a starting signal, the air was shaken by a series of huge explosions and shells began to fall all along the line of the British trenches. The crane trembled under Tom with the violence of the impacts and he saw huge craters opening up to both sides of him. He strained his eyes towards the forest on the far side of the canal and saw that the mist was lifting and beyond the trees the ground rose to a low ridge, from where he could see the muzzle flashes of the German cannon. The noise was terrifying â a continuous roar as one gun after another spewed flame and then a sobbing whistle as the shells flew through the air and explosion after explosion as they landed. Tom had seen what artillery could do, on the road to Kumanovo, and heard it around Bitola, but he had never encountered a bombardment like this. Even with his limited experience, he could tell that these German guns were bigger and more powerful than anything the Serbs had possessed â or than anything his own country could produce, he suspected.
The bombardment went on for hours and Tom looked down at the devastation below him and wondered if anything could possibly remain alive. His hands were shaking and his head was ringing and all he could think of was that Ralph was down there, somewhere, with his men. They had parted quite casually that morning, as if what was coming was nothing more than an exercise. Is this where it ends? Tom wondered. All our high hopes wiped out, and Ralph with them, almost without firing a shot.
The rain had stopped and steam was rising from the marshes as the sun came out, and suddenly there they were! An ordered phalanx of troops in their grey uniforms, marching out, rank on rank, from the sheltering trees. They advanced in a solid block and Tom, staring down, thought what an unmissable target they would make, if only anyone were left alive to shoot. He visualized them pouring across the canal, through the trenches full of dead, and realized that soon his crane would be surrounded. Would they see him? If so, he could look forward to spending the rest of the war as a prisoner. Should he draw his revolver and hope to kill one or two, before they shot him down? For a moment he felt constriction in his throat, not at the prospect of captivity
A movement away to his right caught his eye. A company of cavalry came cantering out of the mist, heading towards the trenches. At first Tom thought they were British, a reconnaissance party coming to report; then he saw that the uniforms were wrong. French, possibly? Or Belgian? Then there was a boom that made him jump and he saw smoke billowing up from an artillery position on the right flank and a gout of earth shot up just in front of the advancing horsemen. âBoche, by God!â he said aloud. The rest of the guns had joined in by now and Tom saw shells falling among the horses. For a brief moment it seemed the riders intended to come on, regardless, then they wheeled away and galloped off into the trees. âFirst blood to us,â Tom muttered, sketching busily.
He had no time to complete the picture. As if the initial gunfire had been a starting signal, the air was shaken by a series of huge explosions and shells began to fall all along the line of the British trenches. The crane trembled under Tom with the violence of the impacts and he saw huge craters opening up to both sides of him. He strained his eyes towards the forest on the far side of the canal and saw that the mist was lifting and beyond the trees the ground rose to a low ridge, from where he could see the muzzle flashes of the German cannon. The noise was terrifying â a continuous roar as one gun after another spewed flame and then a sobbing whistle as the shells flew through the air and explosion after explosion as they landed. Tom had seen what artillery could do, on the road to Kumanovo, and heard it around Bitola, but he had never encountered a bombardment like this. Even with his limited experience, he could tell that these German guns were bigger and more powerful than anything the Serbs had possessed â or than anything his own country could produce, he suspected.
The bombardment went on for hours and Tom looked down at the devastation below him and wondered if anything could possibly remain alive. His hands were shaking and his head was ringing and all he could think of was that Ralph was down there, somewhere, with his men. They had parted quite casually that morning, as if what was coming was nothing more than an exercise. Is this where it ends? Tom wondered. All our high hopes wiped out, and Ralph with them, almost without firing a shot.
The rain had stopped and steam was rising from the marshes as the sun came out, and suddenly there they were! An ordered phalanx of troops in their grey uniforms, marching out, rank on rank, from the sheltering trees. They advanced in a solid block and Tom, staring down, thought what an unmissable target they would make, if only anyone were left alive to shoot. He visualized them pouring across the canal, through the trenches full of dead, and realized that soon his crane would be surrounded. Would they see him? If so, he could look forward to spending the rest of the war as a prisoner. Should he draw his revolver and hope to kill one or two, before they shot him down? For a moment he felt constriction in his throat, not at the prospect of captivity
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