7:23 AM, Mash Valley- British Lines
The earth shook. Even from eight hundred or so yards away Private John Henry could
feel the ground tremble and groan from the impact of the heavy British shells. Good god,
he thought, there must be nothing left of them!
British guns had shelled German positions for five days straight,
a blistering bombardment consuming 1.7 million shells- the heaviest sustained bombardment in
human history. The goal was simple: overwhelm the Germans with superior firepower from a distance,
collapsing their trenches, killing their men, destroying fortifications and barbed wire.
Morale was high amongst the British, despite recent news of a French pivot to the south. The
offensive across the Somne was meant to break the German lines and deal a decisive blow,
retaking lost French territory and putting the Germans on the retreat and out of their
trenches. But the Germans had launched an attack on Verdun, threatening to overwhelm
the French line- this meant the entire offensive rested solely on the untested British forces.
John and his platoon were lined up inside their trench, with countless other platoons
beside and behind them, all waiting to go up and over the top in a massive human wave of
overwhelming numbers. After the blistering barrage the British guns had delivered,
the men laughed and joked- surely there'd be little if anything left of the Germans.
But as the clock moved forward to 7:30 AM,
the troops began to grow quieter. Laughter faded. Men wore serious faces.
John was no man, he was 15 years old and had lied in order to join the war effort.
Like many young British boys he dreamt of the glory of the battlefield and wanted to do his
part for the empire. Now he checked his rifle nervously, the steel helmet on his head too big
for his boyish head. He was grateful at least to be surrounded by friends. The British had
instituted a policy known as 'pals battalions' where men recruited from the same neighborhoods
served together. It was meant to grow esprit de corps and encourage the men to fight harder,
as they would be fighting side by side with soldiers they'd grown up with.
The policy would prove disastrous, as entire units were wiped out leaving whole neighborhoods
without any young men. And today would be one of the deciding factors ending that policy,
as well as the greatest loss of life in British history to date.
Their Lieutenant stood beside the wooden ladder leading up and over the top,
eyes glued to his pocket watch. Next to him, one of the senior sergeants bellowed out
encouragements. “Move steady, do not clump up! Steady up, steady across boys! Do not clump!”
John swallowed nervously, wiping the sweat from his hands. He'd written to his mother yesterday,
she'd been dead set against him joining the army but he'd ignored her wishes. He
couldn't help but wonder if that letter would be the last words she'd ever hear from him.
He pushed those dark thoughts out of his mind. The sergeants had been clear. This
would be not much more than a hurried stroll across no man's land and pop in
to mop up a few survivors. No force could possibly survive such intense bombardment.
“Men! Prepare yourselves!” There was a rustle of activity as men checked their gear once, twice,
three times after the Lieutenant's command. It was almost time. John whispered a small prayer.
He squeezed his eyes shut and then wiped them with a clean hand. He couldn't believe he was crying.
Then suddenly, all went silent. The artillery stopped.
John could hear himself breathe. What was going on? Why weren't they going over?
He and dozens other men and boys stared at their lieutenant, scarcely daring to breathe.
Then the man nodded, pocketing his watch. “Alright then, let's get on with it, yeah?” And with not
another word the man climbed the ladder and went over the top, revolver in hand. His platoon stared
dumbfounded for a second, then the sergeant by the ladder began to scream out orders.
“Go you dumb twits, over you go! You think the lieutenant's gonna fight the whole damn war
himself?! Go! Go!” The man slapped the backs of soldiers shoving them towards the ladder, as each
climbed it one by one. A hundred meters left and right from them the scene was repeating, on and
on across miles of the front as tens of thousand of British soldiers climbed out of their trenches.
John didn't know what he'd pictured, but it wasn't... this. One by one each man went up
the ladder and over the top, but it was almost comical how slow the entire process was. After
a week of artillery and drill, he'd expected... more urgency. But there were only so many break
points in the barbed wire outside the trench, and only one man could use a ladder at a time,
so the British army launched it's largest offensive of the war one man at a time.
After two minutes it was finally John's turn. The Sergeant slapped him on the back encouragingly.
“Remember your training, and you will survive!”. Then it was up and over, John scrambling against
the soft dirt the other troops ahead of him had churned up in front of the trench.
Up and over at last he saw an awe inspiring sight, a vast swarm of British soldiers
slowly moving forward at a quick pace. The men weren't running, but they weren't
exactly strolling either. Each man moved at a brisk walk, rifle in hand and peering through
the light fog ahead of them. Enemy lines were over 800 yards away at this point,
running would have just left the entire attack across this sector too exhausted to fight.
“Move yer asses and do not clump- I said do not clump!” The Sergeant was now up and over
the top as well, and raising hell amongst the troops as he shepherded them across
the field like a sheep dog. John watched his positioning relative to his fellow soldiers,
doing his best to 'not clump' so as to encourage the Sergeant to turn his wrath elsewhere.
The fog made it difficult to see more than a hundred yards ahead, though the rising sun was
slowly dispersing it. He was breathing heavily despite not being tired at all. Hazarding a look
back he couldn't see friendly lines anymore, just a swarm of brown uniforms behind him.
How far had they gone? Two hundred yards? Three hundred? He had no idea, he just kept his eyes
focused on the lieutenant ahead of him, his revolver held up in the air as he advanced.
Another minute of fast walking, still no enemy fire. Had the artillery really finished them off,
or were they still that far away? The sun had cleared up enough of the mist
to improve visibility to two hundred yards or so. How much further to go?
Mash Valley, British Lines
Major Arthur Rollings swept the front with his binoculars. Damned fog made it impossible to
see the enemy's lines, but it had cleared enough that he figured his boys were about to reach the
halfway mark. Without dropping the binocs from his eyes, he gave an order to one of his aides.
“Inform headquarters sector is up and over,
no enemy action. Visibility five hundred yards or so. All appears well.”
The aide confirmed the Major's message and rushed off to transmit it via field
phone. The message would go all the way to Field Marshall Sir Douglas Haig,
who had requested frequent and constant updates from across the front.
Finally, the Major dropped his binoculars,
rubbing his eyes to soothe them from the strain. “Hell's bells, Fritzies might be
all dead after all. Not a shot fired yet. This war may-”, but the Major's words were cut off
by a low whine followed by a plume of dirt and smoke from the middle of no man's land.
That... was not supposed to happen. German
artillery was supposed to be all destroyed. Was this a single gun,
throwing what fire it could to help its front line defenders? The Major soon got his answer.
Mash Valley, No Man's Land
John and the rest of the platoon froze in their tracks. The single shell had landed with a dull
plopping sound in the soft earth in the middle of a group of soldiers. It hadn't exploded,
but the superheated shell had created a smoking hole in the ground. Confused,
John looked for one of the Sergeants. They were all green, not a single veteran amongst
them- including many of the sergeants. This was the closest they had ever come to death.
“Don't just stand there you numb-wits, move yer arses or I'll-”,
but the Sergeant's words were lost as the world exploded around John.
Mash Valley, British Lines
Major Rollings watched incredulously as artillery began to rain down across the front. It was slow
at first, but within seconds picked up to a furious tempo. And it was very accurate,
the Germans had expertly zeroed in their guns on
the last four hundred or so yards of no man's land in front of their trenches.
German guns hadn't been destroyed, and their fire was terrifyingly accurate. It was a trap,
they must have known everything about the attack, down to the precise moment it would take place!
Tears came to the Major's eyes - tears of fury and pain as he watched scores of his
men blown to pieces before him. The thundering roar of German artillery continued across the
entire front it seemed. Hundreds, maybe thousands, were dead and wounded already.
With a roar of rage the Major unholstered his revolver and tried to run towards the
trenches, he wanted to go up and over himself. He needed to get to his boys,
help them forward. Do something. His aides grabbed him however, dragging him to the
ground and wrestling the gun away from him as he roared and sobbed in pained rage.
Mash Valley, No Man's Land
A strong hand lifted John up by the back of his uniform and roughly stood him on his feet. It
was the Sergeant again, covered head to toe in dirt from impacts. “On yer feet and forward,
soldier. You want to live?! Then get forward!” John had heard Sergeants were indestructible,
this one was proving true the rumour true.
He'd wet himself, he could feel the warmth on his legs. An impact nearby had picked
him up and knocked him to the ground again. He had no idea if he'd wet himself from fear
or simply lost control of his bladder from the mighty blow. It was difficult to breathe too,
his lungs felt like they were being squeezed and the air was full of dirt and smoke. Still,
he gripped his rifle and rushed forward, exactly as he'd been trained to do.
The artillery smashed the earth all around him, blowing men apart and hurling them through
the air like rag dolls. John ignored all that now, he wanted to get out of this deadly rain,
and the only way to do that was to get to the trenches ahead of him.
Mash Valley, German Trenches
There was a rush of activity across the entire trench. German soldiers
were climbing out of their hidey holes and rushing to prepare rifles and machine guns
for combat. They'd lived like moles for a week, but when the British artillery
had begun they already had strong underground shelters. This was some of the best fortified
stretch of German lines anywhere, and the British bombardment had killed few.
It didn't help that an incredible third of all British shells had been duds, doing little more
than making small, deep holes in the ground. Those that did explode had mostly been shrapnel shells-
great for killing infantry out in the open, as the German guns were currently doing, but useless
against fortifications. They hadn't even managed to cut many holes in the German barbed wire.
A machine gunner peering over his weapon nervously, suddenly
began to shout. “Sie kommen! Sie kommen!”
All across the trench german soldiers moved to their firing positions,
but it was the machine guns who greeted the British first- and there were a lot of them.
Mash Valley, No Man's Land
The air was alive with angry hornets, fat machine gun rounds that seemed to
shred the air as they tore through it. Men were falling by the scores,
and yet the German artillery continued its deadly work. Despite all hell itself
breaking out around him, John rushed forward- no more brisk walking now.
Vast fields of barbed wire greeted him and thousands of other British soldiers.
The week long bombardment had been meant to clear these fields, and yet all it had
managed to do was create a few holes in the strands of wire. The rest was a mangled mess,
possibly even more dangerous now than when it was first laid out.
Some men braved the mess of razor sharp wire though, favoring an attempt to pick their
way through than rushing through the fatal choke points created by the breaks- which were perfect
killing fields for German machine guns. It was a losing proposition either way. Men in the breaks
were mowed down by the dozen, and those who tried to pick their way through the barbed
wire ended up tangled up in it, lacerated all over, and easy prey for enemy riflemen.
The Sergeant screamed through the noise and confusion,
funneling men towards the break in the wire. All things considered,
it was probably the safest option as the machine guns would have to pause and reload at some point.
Tears of fear and raw panic poured from his eyes as John rushed alongside two dozen of
his peers through a ten yard break in the wire. The ground had grown slick with blood and was
becoming difficult to traverse thanks to all the dead and dying. John expected death at any moment-
but it didn't come. Men fell in front and around him, but not in mass droves. The machine guns
were reloading, or perhaps they had run out of ammunition. There'd been no shortage of targets.
He slipped on the gore of a recently slain soldier, falling to the ground and losing his
grip on his rifle. He shrugged off his pack in frustration- the British had expected so little
resistance to survive the artillery that most of them were heavily weighed down with supplies and
engineering equipment to fortify the trenches they would take today. Tossing the heavy pack aside,
he grabbed his rifle and picked himself up, joining the mad dash towards the enemy line
alongside dozens of his countrymen. Incredibly, despite the withering combination of artillery
and machine guns, the great human wave attack pressed on. But thousands lay dead
or wounded behind and around John, and more would die before the day was over.
Only fifty yards to the enemy trench now. Soldiers were dropping to a knee and firing at Germans,
but John's hands shook too hard and he didn't trust his aim. He had just one goal- get to
the trench, jump inside, get out of the line of fire. But what would happen once
he was in a trench fully occupied by dozens of German defenders? The thought didn't'
even cross his mind, he was consumed with just one goal: get to the trench.
This wasn't how it was supposed to have been. His uniform was stained
with his own piss and the blood of others who'd been ripped to pieces,
making the ground too slippery to run on. This wasn't what the posters had advertised,
and this wasn't what the hand-drawn heroic looking soldiers on those posters had looked like as
they beckoned you to glory and adventure. Their uniforms had been crisp, pristine,
faces clear and unblemished by tears of terror carving paths through dirt, blood, and grime.
Forty yards. Thirty yards. Just twenty yards to go!
Mash Valley, German Trenches
Oberleutnant Wilhelm Freisinger worked the action of his rifle feverishly. Despite the
artillery and machine guns, the British had nearly reached his trench. However,
it did not look as if there were many left in the rear of the mass of men rushing toward him.
The artillery and guns had done their deadly work with great efficiency. Now that the fog
was lifted it was clear there were more British laying flat on the ground than on their feet.
He ducked as British rounds reached out for him, taking the time to reload his rifle. As
he worked the rifle with the automatic precision of an experienced shooter,
he shot out a few words of encouragement to the men around him. As a precaution though
he ordered them to prepare to use bayonets. The men were terrified, he knew this because
he felt it too, but they were not showing it. It made him proud. He was young for a Oberleutnant,
several years younger than his peers in fact. But he'd distinguished himself in
battle against the French and was quickly promoted. If the older men under his command
resented him for his youth, they had never once showed it. He'd earned their respect
by being fair but tough, and remaining cool throughout the week long barrage.
They were family now. The thought hurt though, as Wilhelm reminisced about his
real family back home. But he shook the thoughts away, looking to one of
the machine gun teams that had just finished reloading. In a second it was firing again,
spitting rounds down range at a terrible rate. It was best to wait for the machine guns to open
up before popping one's head up and out of the trench to retake your firing position.
A moment after the gun started up, Wilhelm popped up- surprised momentarily by British
soldiers having reached within yards of his position. Gritting his teeth,
he raised his rifle up and lined up a shot, squeezing the trigger.
He couldn't be sure because of the distance and grime on his face,
but that soldier had looked young to him. He reminded him of his little brother in
the few seconds he'd had him in his sights before pulling the trigger. But Wilhelm
pushed the thought away as quickly as it formed. There was grim work to be done,
though judging by the look of things, the British would not be taking his trench today.
Now you need to watch “Why Life of a WW1 Soldier in the Trenches SUCKED” Or,
have a look at “50 Insane World War 1 Facts That Will Shock You!”