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The London Rifle Brigade in the Great War

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The London Rifle Brigade in the Great War
Leonaur Original
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Author(s): Gilbert Nobbs
Date Published: 2010/08
Page Count: 196
Softcover ISBN-13: 978-0-85706-221-5
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-0-85706-222-2

The London Rifles in the Trenches

The London Rifle Brigade was one of the famous territorial regiments that saw service during the Great War. This book—for the sake of good value—brings together two accounts of its service on the Western Front. The first is a short history written by an anonymous author that briefly, with the aid of photographs and maps, outlines the activities of the regiment during its time in Europe; the reader can therefore follow the Rifles battalions through the war in detail. The second title in this volume is Gilbert Nobb's 'On the Right of the British Line.' Nobbs was an officer of the regiment and saw much active service before being seriously wounded. His first hand account adds the immediacy of personal experiences in the trenches and under fire to the accompanying history. Available in softcover and hardback with dust jacket for collectors.

I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I understood; I could trust them; they could trust me.<br>
“That’s all; return to your platoons and prepare to move.”<br>
They had not uttered a word through all this; no words were necessary. They jumped to their feet; saluted as though we were back on Salisbury Plain, and the next moment ran along the parados to their platoons.<br>
I watched them, and saw them kneel down on the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers’ bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly explaining the situation to their men.<br>
By 3 p.m. the men were ready and had closed along the trench to the wood.<br>
The movement had been seen by the enemy, and a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, at the time I could not see what effect it was having.<br>
I waited several minutes, but there was no further movement along the trench to indicate that the first platoon had entered the wood. I sent forward the message, “Carry on,” but still no movement resulted.<br>
At last, feeling something was wrong and unable to restrain my impatience any longer, I jumped out of the trench and ran along the parados.<br>
What I saw there appalled me for the moment; the wood in front of me was filled with bursting shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be moving backward and forward, and bullets were whistling in all directions.<br>
Good God! what a hell! No wonder the men hesitated! What was to be done? My orders left me no alternative. I must advance through the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, “At any cost!” What a cost it would be to enter that hell! It was now, or never!<br>
We were hesitating; something must be done, and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I knew I could count on him.<br>
The next moment I leaped into a newly made shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he came jumping after.<br>
The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top of our voices for the next man to follow.<br>
The next man to take the leap was the company sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, clutching at his tunic.<br>
Again we yelled for the men to come along; and one by one they took the leap.<br>
When six of us were in the shell-hole it was time for us to empty it to make room for others. Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, and this process went on through the wood, leaping from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our lungs for the others to follow us.<br>
By this time the scene inside the wood was indescribable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying backward and forward; 6-inch shells were exploding in all directions; and the din was intensified by the crashing of trees uprooted by the explosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking the ground.<br>
Through the dull light of that filthy wood we frequently cast an anxious glance towards the red rockets being sent up from the German lines, directing the fire of their artillery towards us.<br>
Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a German soldier who had fallen a week before. It was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies sucking at his open wounds would swarm about us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our disturbance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we must go.<br>
By this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the absence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too significant.<br>
But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came for another effort.<br>
Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:<br>
“I don’t think it really matters. There’s a hole about thirty yards away; I think I’ll go straight for that.”<br>
He got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death which seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a moment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.<br>
I shouted at him:<br>
“Don’t be a damned fool; jump!”<br>
The next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. He was safe!<br>
Again and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of horrors, kept beckoning me forward, “At any cost! At any cost!”<br>
Yes; this must be the end; but it’s hell to die in a wood.<br>
The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They were brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers.<br>
Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.<br>
They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a solicitor’s clerk.<br>
Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.<br>
Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are damned proud of it.
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