Battlewrack

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 1 / 6
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

Captain von Waldhofer, battery commander of the 10th Battery of Foot Artillery, stood helmeted and buttoned, hastily sipping steaming coffee in his dugout. The electric light, fed from the power station at Cambrai miles away, lit a cozy little room. Portraits of the Kaiser and Hindenburg looked stiffly from the matchboard walls, oddly at home with a medley of colored pages from Simplicissimus, Jugend, and, oddly enough, Vie Parisienne. One wall was covered by an enormous large-scale map of the Somme area, divided into numbered squares, heavily scored with blue pencil, across which ran a great curve of red lines in intricate patterns—the enemy trenches—and radiating pin-supported colored threads from a point southeast of Flers fanned across the opposing line.

The battery-made bed, wire mesh over a wooden frame, sloped slightly downward, with blankets in disarray, dominated the room. A small table held books and writing materials neatly, and two plush armchairs stood beside a camp washstand where the water still steamed. A carpet, mud-stained but thick, covered the floor. A stove in the corner had a pipe that bent at right angles and rose to the steep stairway. The deliberate comfort suggested long residence and the expectation of an indefinite stay; only the pick and shovel by the door hinted at possible disaster.

An orderly stood stiffly at attention while his master finished. The captain put down his cup. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Quarter to seven, Herr Captain."

"What sort of morning?"

"Clear, Herr Captain, but very cold."

"Any aeroplanes?"

"None over the battery."

The captain gave a final glance in the wall mirror, touched the black-and-white ribbon of the Iron Cross on his breast as if flicking away dust, and turned to go. The calendar caught his eye; he tore off the top page: September 15th, 1916.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 2 / 6
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

He climbed the steep thirty steps with the heavy step of an older man and emerged into the blue sky of a clear dawn. Around him was bare rolling downland. Half a mile in front lay the village of Flers, huddled among sparse trees, its skeletal roofs silhouetted against the blue. Between him and the village, close by in a slight depression, the four 105mm guns of his battery stood spaced and silent, veiled in gauze-like material tufted with green and brown, blending with the terrain. They were invisible from above. Near them were ammunition stacks, also shrouded. Except for a sentry, the guns were deserted. The battery personnel queued up for breakfast, smoke rising from field kitchens.

The battery dugouts were cut into the breast of a slight rise, their exits facing northwest, flanking the gun positions. The commander stood a moment surveying his little community, then climbed the rise to his usual viewpoint. He looked west. In the cold early light, the rolling downs rose to a long ridge two miles away. White lines of trenches crisscrossed the chalk slopes. On the skyline stood the Bois de Foureaux, a clump of bare, shell-splintered stumps, and beyond, the Bois de Delville. That clean-swept landscape was the great fact of his existence. Shell bursts in the distance and the occasional twinkle of a field gun's flash were the only signs of war. An English shell whined overhead to burst in Flers; enemy aeroplanes dodged among smoke puffs. From overhead came the drone of a German machine. But for the occasional uproar, the scene was strangely quiet.

Satisfied, he descended to the battery and walked to the command dugout, marked with a board: "Telephone and Command Dugout." The sergeant major at the door saluted. Inside, a young lieutenant, Eberstein, rose from the telephone. "Good morning, Eberstein," said the captain. "Anything new?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing of this rumored attack?"

"Nothing."

The captain sat down heavily. "And that frightful bombardment last night? What do you make of it?" He lit a cigarette.

The lieutenant's mouth twisted in a contemptuous smile. "The English want to make us nervous or persuade themselves that their great push isn't over."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 3 / 6
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

"And you think it is?"

Eberstein's optimism was a welcome stimulus. "Of course," he said. "Since the first rush they've been fought to a standstill. Two and a half months and where are they? Now in one week on the Donajetz we—"

"Yes, I know," interrupted von Waldhofer. "But it's the Somme, not the Donajetz." He removed his helmet and rubbed his high forehead. "I wish I were as certain as you. These English don't know when they're beaten. The colonel was so positive last night, and he'd just come from General Staff. At dawn, he said, we might expect it. I can't understand it. All night that bombardment, then this quiet. I feel something is coming."

"If they come, all the better!" cried Eberstein. "We'll annihilate them." He was interrupted by a heavy roar that started suddenly and rolled on without end.

"There we are!" exclaimed von Waldhofer, looking at his watch: seven o'clock precisely.

The telephone rang. The sergeant major announced a message from the observation officer. Eberstein picked up: "Intense artillery fire on entire sector. Infantry attack expected momentarily." He repeated it. The captain rushed to the door, shouting orders. Outside, the guns had been unveiled, their crews ready.

In the dugout, the two officers listened. The distant thunder continued. The heavy guns near them began answering. English shells crashed in reply. The telephone rang again: battalion commander. Von Waldhofer took the receiver. "Yes, we're ready. It's coming this time. No, nothing more. Goodbye." He turned to Eberstein. "That old story again! Some wonderful invention the English are supposed to have. I wonder if there's anything in it?"

Eberstein laughed. "The English invent anything? Not they! I don't believe in any new invention that can revolutionize war. Two years of war, and what have we seen? Nothing new. The Zeppelin is a perfected Montgolfier. Poison gas is Greek fire. There is nothing new!"

Von Waldhofer shook his head. "You're very sure. But rumors persist. Where there's smoke, there's fire. We're very close here. Listen to that bombardment!"

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 4 / 6
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

They sat silent for a moment. Then von Waldhofer shouted to the telephonist: "Get me the observation officer!" Soon he spoke: "What's happening?" "The bombardment is continuing, much damage. Some sectors are wiped out. My wire's been cut twice." "No infantry attack?" "Not yet. This is preparatory." "Keep me informed."

Turning to Eberstein, he said, "We'll soon see." "There'll be nothing," said the lieutenant. "The English would never invent anything new." But von Waldhofer said, "Hush! Listen!" The enemy fire stopped, then resumed in a thunderous surge. "The barrage has lifted!" cried von Waldhofer. He ordered the sergeant major to be ready. The phone rang: "Message from observation officer!" Von Waldhofer snatched the receiver: "Barrage!" "Fire!" he shouted. It was 7:20.

The battery's guns crashed out in rapid succession, sending a stream of shells to a set area. The noise of the barrage was deafening, mixing with the roar of battle.

Von Waldhofer sat with the receiver to his ear; Eberstein picked up the other. They heard the observation officer's faint voice. "What?" shouted von Waldhofer.

"Something is coming—something strange—I can't see well—something crawling—a machine—firing—terrible!" Then the voice cut off. The line was dead. Von Waldhofer shouted "Kurt! Kurt!" but no answer. More shells burst nearby, but they were transfixed. The phone rang again: an order from battalion commander.

"Enemy armored cars are crossing the trenches at point C 32 d 4.1. Open fire immediately!" Von Waldhofer sprang to the map, calculated quickly, and ordered: "Cease fire! All guns 20 degrees right! Left half 3150 meters, right half 3100! With percussion! Forty rounds battery fire!" The guns fired. "Panzerkraftwagen!" Eberstein said. "But they can't cross trenches!" "Something's wrong," said the captain, and he ordered Eberstein to go forward to reestablish communication.

As Eberstein left, von Waldhofer spoke to the battalion commander again: "I'm firing on them now. No observation. Yes. I understand. We will not retreat. Goodbye." He put down the receiver and thought. Then he ordered his telephonist to send for ammunition, and he ran up to the surface.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 5 / 6
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

He found the battery crews mopping sweat; shell bursts were all around. He called to Lieutenant Schwarz, the strict officer. "Schwarz, we've lost contact with the forward officer. I'm going to the flank observation post. The battery must hold at all costs. If I'm hit, you command. Remember those armored cars. Direct fire if you can." Then, taking a horse from a limber, he galloped toward the observation post.

The flank observation post was a splinter-proof dugout on a knoll. He arrived, dismounted, and entered. The telephonists were there. He looked through the slit with his binoculars. The view was obscured by smoke and moving troops. He saw a field battery retreating, and then something emerged over the crest—a slow, ponderous shape with a gun protruding. Swiftly he switched to the range finder. He saw soldiers firing at the monster, but it kept coming. He took the range and shouted orders: "All guns 28.3 degrees left! Right half-section, No.1 gun 980 meters, No.2 960 meters! Percussion! One round, fire!" He watched the shells burst, but the monster continued, disappeared into a hollow. The enemy barrage increased, and he guessed the thing was protected by a moving barrage.

He fired blindly. If only he could see! He asked for news of Eberstein, but none. More men were killed in the battery. Then a shell burst near the dugout, and von Waldhofer was knocked unconscious.

He woke to find the dugout destroyed, his orderlies dead. He scrambled out and ran toward the battery. The battery was under heavy fire. He saw Schwarz standing calmly. "What's happened?" "Heavy fire. All wires cut. We've fired when possible. Three rounds per gun left. We still hold." "Good. Casualties?" "All but a dozen dead." Just then a shell burst, and Schwarz fell dead, hit in the chest.

Von Waldhofer saw the barrage of the monster approaching.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-e5270898ce8a460b8eba5ddc93fccd66
# book_title: Battlewrack
# chapter_id: 1-battlewrack
# chapter_title: Battlewrack
# book_page: 6 / 6
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

He shouted to the crews to lie down. They did. He lay prone, watching as the barrage moved past. Through the smoke he saw the monster appear. He waited until it was fully in view, then sprang up, shouting, "To the guns! Point blank! Fire!" The crews leaped to the guns, but too late. The monster turned, opened fire with small shells and machine guns. Only one shell fired—it missed. The last gunner fell dead.

The monster crept forward, spraying bullets. Von Waldhofer stood alone, erect, hoping for death. But then the firing ceased. The machine came closer, clanking.

In a fury of hatred, von Waldhofer drew his pistol and ran toward it, firing uselessly at its steel plates. He was beneath it, screaming, as it rolled over him.

In the bright September morning, the strange new monsters crawled over the tortured landscape, followed by cheering khaki-clad men. They waved newspaper posters: "Great British Victory!"