THE FINAL OBJECTIVE

It was all apt to be desperately confusing—the smoke, the shapeless shell-cratered ground, the deafening unceasing tempest of noise—but out of all this confusion and the turmoil of their attack there were one or two things that remained clear in the mind of Corporal; and after all they were the things that counted. One was that he was in charge for the moment of the remains of the company, that when their last officer was knocked out he, Corporal Ackroyd, had taken the officer’s wrist watch and brief instructions to “Carry on—you know what to do”; and the other that they had, just before the officer was casualtied, reached the “pink-line objective.”

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Without going too closely into the detailed methods of the attack—the normal methods of this particular period—it is enough to say that three objective lines had been marked up on the maps of the ground to be taken, a pink, a purple, and a “final objective” blue-black line. Between the moment of occupying the pink line and the move to attack the purple there were some twelve minutes allowed to bring supports into position, to pour further destructive artillery fire on the next objective, and so on. Corporal Ackroyd, in common with the rest of the battalion, had been very fully instructed in the map position, and rehearsed over carefully-measured-out ground in practice attack, and knew fairly well the time-table laid down. Before the officer was carried back by the bearers he gave one or two further simple guiding rules. “Send back a runner to report. If nobody comes up to take over in ten minutes, push on to the purple line. It’s the sunk road; you can’t mistake it. Keep close on the barrage, and you can’t go wrong”; and finally, “Take my watch; it’s synchronised time.”

Ackroyd sent back his runner, and was moving to a position where he could best keep control of the remains of the company, when there came an interruption.

“Some blighter out there flappin’ a white flag, Corporal,” reported a look-out, and pointed to where an arm and hand waved from a shell-hole a hundred yards to their front. The Corporal was wary. He had seen too much of the “white-flag trick” to give himself or his men away, but at the same time was keenly sensible of the advantage of getting a bunch of Germans on their immediate front to surrender, rather than have to advance in face of their fire. There was not much time to spare before the laid-down moment for the advance.

He half rose from his cover and waved an answer. Promptly a figure rose from the shell-hole and with hands well over his head came running and stumbling over the rough ground towards him. Three-quarter way over he dropped into another shell-hole, and from there waved again. At another reassuring wave from Ackroyd he rose, ran in and flung himself down into the shell-hole where the Corporal waited. The Corporal met him with his bayoneted rifle at the ready and his finger on the trigger, and the German rose to his knees shooting both hands up into the air with a quick “Kamerad.”

“Right-oh,” said Ackroyd. “But where is your chums? Ain’t any more coming?”

The German answered in guttural but clear enough English, “Mine comrades sended me, wherefore—because I speak English. They wish to kamerad, to become prisoner if you promise behave them well. You no shoot if they come.”

“Right,” said Ackroyd with another glance at his watch. “But you’ll ’ave to ’urry them up. We’re goin’ to advance in about seven minutes, and I’ll promise nothin’ after that. Signal ’em in quick.”

“If I to them wave they will come,” answered the German. “But mine officer come first and make proper kamerad.”

“He’ll make a proper bloomin’ sieve if he don’t come quick,” retorted Ackroyd. “The barrage is due to drop in less’n seven minutes. Signal ’im along quick,” he repeated impatiently, as he saw the other failed to understand. The German turned and made signals, and at once another figure came running and crouching to where they waited. “Mine officer,” said the first German, “he no speak English, so I interpret.”

“Tell ’im,” said Ackroyd, “the shellin’ will begin again in five or six minutes, an’ the line will advance. If he fetches ’is men in quick, they’ll be all right, but I’ll promise nothing if they’re not in before then.”

He waited, fidgeting anxiously, while this was interpreted, and the officer returned an answer.

“He say why needs you advance until all his men have surrender?” said the German.

“Why?” exploded Ackroyd. “Why? Does ’e think I’m the bloomin’ Commander-in-Chief an’ that I’m runnin’ this show? Look ‘ere”—he paused a moment to find words to put the position clearly and quickly. He saw the urgency of the matter. In another few minutes the barrage would drop, and the line would begin to push on. If by then these Germans had not surrendered, they would conclude that the officer had not made terms and they would remain in cover and fight—which meant more casualties to their already unusually heavy list. If he could get the surrender completed before the moment for advance, the next strip of ground to the “purple objective line” would be taken quickly, easily, and cheaply.

“Now look ’ere,” he said rapidly. “You must fix this quick. This show, this push, advance, attack, is runnin’ to a set time-table. Comprenny? At quarter-past—see, quarter-past”—and he thrust out the watch marking eleven minutes past—“the barrage, the shellin’, begins, an’ we start on for the next objective——”

“Start what?” interjected the interpreter.

“Objective,” yelled Ackroyd angrily. “Don’t you know what a blazing objective is? The sunk road is our nex’ objective line. D’you know the sunk road?”

“Ja, ja, I knows the road,” agreed the German. Then the officer interrupted, and the interpreter turned to explain matters to him. “I cannot it explain this objective,” he said. “Mine officer what is it asks?”

Ackroyd swore lustily and full-bloodedly, but bit short his oaths. There was no time for spare language now. “See here, tell ’im this quick. A objective is the line we’re told to take, an’ goes an’ takes. The Commander-in-Chief, ‘Aig hisself, says where the objective is, an’ he marks up a line on the map to show where we goes to an’ where we stops. There’s a final objective where we finishes each push. D’you savvy that? Every bit o’ the move is made at the time laid down in attack orders. You can’t alter that, an’ I can’t, nor nobody else can’t. Old ’Aig ’e just draws ‘is blue-black line on the map and ses, ‘There’s your final objective’; an’ we just goes an’ takes it. Now ’ave you got all that?”

The two Germans spoke rapidly for a moment, but the Corporal interrupted as he noted the rising sound of the gun-fire and the rapidly-increasing rush of our shells overhead. “Here, ’nuff o’ this!” he shouted. “There’s no time—there’s the barrage droppin’ again. Call your men in if your goin’ to; or push off back an’ we’ll go ’n fetch ’em ourselves. You must get back the both o’ you. We’re movin’ on.” And he made a significant motion with the bayonet.

As they rose crouching the roar of gun-fire rose to a pitch of greater and more savage intensity; above their heads rushed and shrieked a whirlwind of passing shells; out over the open beyond them the puffing shell-bursts steadied down to a shifting rolling wall of smoke. And out of this smoke wall there came running, first in ones and twos, and then in droves, a crowd of grey-clad figures, all with hands well over their heads, some with jerking and waving dirty white rags.

At the same moment supports came struggling in to our line, and the Corporal made haste to hand over to their officer. The prisoners were being hastily collected for removal to the rear, and our line rising to advance, when the interpreter caught at the Corporal. “Mine officer he say,” he shouted, “where is it this fine ol’ objective?”

The Corporal was in rather happy mood over the surrender and the prospect of advancing without opposition. “Where is it?” he retorted. “Like ’is bloomin’ cheek askin’. You tell ’im that ’is final objective is Donington ‘All—an’ I wish ours was ’alf as pleasant. Ours ain’t far this time, but we’re off now to take it accordin’ to attack orders an’ time-table, like we always does. An’ we’ll do it just the same fashion—’cos ’e knows us an’ we knows ’im, an’ knows ’e don’t ask wot we can’t do—when the day comes that good old ’Aig draws ’is blue-black line beyond its back doors an’ tells us the final objective is Berlin.”