They were crawling up a shallow trench, newly made in open ground, at an angle of 45 degrees from us. We did not try to force our way back into the trench against that crowd, so kept out on top and joined our comrades, who laughed when they saw us running in from where the Boche was supposed to be.
The man alongside puts on his bayonet as the order is passed down the line to go over on command. The officers snap out: “Five minutes, three minutes, one minute, En Avant!” The Colonials, the Moroccans and the Legionnaires, all mixed up, arrive about the same time. Up, and over the Boche line trench. Where is the wire? It has been blown away by artillery. Instead of deep, open trenches, we find them covered over! Swarming we go up on top the covered trenches then turn and throw bombs in at the port-holes from which the Germans are shooting. Boches run out at the entrances, climb from the dugouts, hands in air, crying, “Kamarad.”
More grenades inside and more German prisoners. The first line men keep going. German dead lie all about. German equipment is piled around; we pass the wounded, meet the living enemy. A running Zouave met a Boche, who goes down with the Zouave’s bayonet in his chest. The Zouave puts his foot on the man, pulls out the bayonet, and keeps on his headlong rush.
An old, grey-haired Poilu met a Boche in square combat, bayonet to bayonet. The old man (his bayonet had broken) got inside the other’s guard, forced him to the ground, and was choking him to death when another Frenchman, helping his comrade, pushed the old man aside in order to get a sure welt at the Boche. The old man, quick as a cat, jumped up. He thought another German was after him and recognized his comrade. The German sat up and stuck up his hands. The Frenchmen looked foolish—it would be murder! Half a dozen Germans just then came from a dugout. That old man took his ride with the twisted, broken bayonet, picked up a couple of German casques, and, lining the prisoners up, took them to the rear. Prisoners all about. One big German officer surrendered with a machine gun crew who carried their own gun. Unwounded prisoners lugged their wounded comrades on their backs while others limped along, leaning on comrades. Many had broken, bruised heads. Prisoners bore French wounded on stretchers. The dead lay in all directions, riddled, peppered by the 75’s, mangled with high explosives, faces dried-blood, blackened.