OVERVIEW:
ATTACK: An Infantry Subaltern's Impression of July 1st, 1916 by Edward G.D Liveing is a historical account written in the early
20th century. The book provides a vivid depiction of the Battle of
the Somme, focusing on one infantry officer's perspective during a specific and
harrowing attack on the fortified village of Gommecourt. Through personal
reflections and detailed observations, the author conveys the physical and
emotional challenges faced by soldiers in the trenches. The narrative follows
the author as he recounts the events leading up to and during the attack on
July 1, 1916. Intertwined with a sense of anticipation and dread, Liveing
describes the chaotic preparations, the steely resolve of his platoon, and the
brutal reality of combat as they charge into No Man's Land. As the battle
unfolds, Liveing documents the harrowing toll it takes on his men and the
overwhelming violence encountered from enemy machine gun fire. Beyond the
physical landscape of war, the book also explores themes of fear, camaraderie,
and the humanity that persists amid the destruction, painting a poignant
portrait of life at the front during World War One.
The following excerpt from ATTACK is titled 4. TOLL OF ATTACK:
4. TOLL OF ATTACK
We climbed the little white road that led
through the battery positions, now almost silent, topped the crest, and dipped
into Sailly-au-Bois. The village had
been very little shelled since the night before and appeared the same as ever,
except that the intense traffic that had flowed into it for the past month had
ceased. Limbers and lorries had done their work, and the only objects that
filled the shell-scarred streets were slow-moving ambulances, little
blood-stained groups of "walking wounded," and the troops of a
new division moving up into the line.
Though we were all in some pain as the ambulance
jolted along through the ruts in the side of the road, we felt rather sorry for
those poor chaps as they peered inside the car. Our fate was decided; theirs still
hung in the balance. How often on the march one had looked back oneself into a
passing ambulance and wished, rather shamefully, for a "Blighty" [a wound that was sufficiently serious to merit being
shipped home to Britain] one.
Sunburned and healthy, they looked as they shouted after us, "Good luck,
boys, give our love to Blighty."
At the end of the village, the ambulance swung
off on a road leading to the left. It must have crossed the track by which my
platoon and I went up the night before. At about 11:30 a.m., we arrived
at Couin, the headquarters of
the First Field Ambulance.
A hum of conversation and joking arose from
every side, and, with some exceptions, you could not have found a more cheerful
gathering anywhere. The immediate strain of battle had passed, and friends
meeting friends compared notes of their experiences in the "show."
Here, a man with a bandaged arm was talking affectionately to a less fortunate
"chum" on a stretcher, asking him if he could do anything for him. It
is extraordinary how suffering knits men together and how much sympathy is
brought out in a man at the sight of a badly wounded comrade. Yonder by the
huts, an orderly assisted a "walking case," shot through the lungs
and vomiting blood freely.
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Nearby, I recognized E——'s servant
of the L—— S—— [sic]. When he had finished giving some tea or water to a
friend, I hailed him and asked him if Mr. E—— was
hit. Mr. E——, he told me, had been laid up
for some days past and had not taken part in the attack. He was, however, going
around and writing letters for the men. Would I like to see him? We were fairly
good acquaintances, so I said that I would. Presently, he arrived.
"Bad luck, old chap. Where
have you caught it?" he asked.
"In the thigh," I
replied.
He wrote two postcards home for me, one home and
another to relatives, and I did my best to sign them. I remember that on one of
them was inscribed, "This is to let you know that E—— has
been caught bending," and wondering what my grandfather, a doctor,
would make of that!
The sun was beating down on us now, and since,
after I had been duly labeled "GSW (gunshot wound) Back," a Medical
Staff Officer advised that I would be transferred into the officers' hut; I
entered its cooler shades with much gladness.
Captain W---came in soon afterward. In the second line German trench, he had looked over the parados [a bank of earth built behind a trench to protect from
attack from the rear or by enfilade fire] to see if any opposition was coming up from the third line trench and had been hit by a machine gun bullet in the shoulder. H---also put in an appearance with a bullet wound in the arm. He had taken a party of walking wounded up to Sailly-au-Bois and got a car. A doctor brought around the familiar old beverage of tea, which, in large quantities and in company with whisky, helped us through many an unpleasant day in the trenches. Captain W---refused it and insisted on having some bread and jam. I took both with much relish and, having appeased an unusually large appetite, got an orderly to wash my face and hands, which were coated with blood.
"I dare say you feel as you
was gettin' back to civilization again, sir," he said. Much refreshed, and
quietly looking at a new number of The
Tatler [British magazine
and a cultural touchstone in WW1],
I certainly felt as if I were, though despite an
air ring [sic], the wound was feeling rather uncomfortable. At the end of the
hut, two or three poor fellows were dying of stomach wounds. It was a
peculiar contrast to hear several men chatting gaily just outside my end of the
hut. I could only catch fragments of their conversation, which I give here.
"When Mr. A—— gave the order to advance, I went over like a
bird."
"The effect of the rum,
Laddie!"
"Mr A—— was
going strong too."
"What's happened to Mr. A——, do you know?"
"Don't know. I didn't see 'im
after that."
"'E's all right. Saw him just
now. Got a wound in the arm."
"Good. Isn't the sun fine
here? Couldn't want a better morning for an attack, could you?"
The hut was filling rapidly, and the three stomach cases, being quite hopeless, were removed outside. Then a doctor brought in an officer from the K---'s. He was quite dazed and sank full length on a bed, passing his hand across his face and moaning. He was not wounded but had been blown up while engaged in cutting a communication trench across No Man's Land, they told me. It was not long, however, before he recovered his senses sufficiently to walk with help of an ambulance. A padre [military chaplain] entered, supporting a young officer, a far worse case of shell shock, and laid him out on the bed. He had no control over himself and was weeping hysterically. "For God's sake, don't let me
go back; don't send me back!" he cried.
The padre
tried to comfort him.
"You'll soon be in a nice
hospital at the base, old chap, or probably in England."
He looked
at the padre blankly, not understanding a word that he was saying.
You can find the complete eBook ATTACK by Edward G.D Liveing at: https://tinyurl.com/4xkkpjea
Complete World War One works of author Cotter Bass and Moonshadow
Publishing: https://tinyurl.com/4v68wcy8
Next time: CARRY ON by Coningsby
Dawson . . . . .
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