The Diggers 1

The Diggers 1

The Diggers

The Australians in France

 

Author: Patrick MacGill

 

MY DEAR MR. MACGILL,--

 

From the day on which _The Children of the Dead End_ came into my

hands, I have been amongst the most devoted of your worshippers.

In this and in your later books, your genius has won world-wide

recognition, and no words of mine are needed to commend to your

very wide circle of readers this story of the achievements of the

Australian soldiers in France.

 

The imperishable deeds of Australia's glorious soldiers have carved

for themselves a deep niche in the topmost towers of the Temple of

the Immortals. The story of their valour will live throughout the

ages, and future generations of Australians will speak of them as we

do of all the heroic figures of antiquity, and strive to mould their

lives upon the sublime spirit of self-sacrifice and love of country

and liberty which animated them. Their valour has covered Australia

with a lustre that shines throughout the world, so that her name,

which but yesterday was almost unknown, is now a household word in

the mouths of all the peoples of the earth.

 

The war has made of Australia--a young community without

traditions--a nation, acutely and proudly conscious of its

nationality, its record in this war, and the great future which

awaits it. Upon that day some four years gone, when in the grey of

early dawn the Australian soldier leapt upon an unknown shore and

in the face of a murderous fire scaled the heights of Gaba Tepe--a

feat of arms almost unparalleled in the history of war--the young

Australian Commonwealth put on the toga of manhood, and at one stride

entered on a footing of equality the family of free nations of the

earth. Gallipoli--scene of that most glorious attempt which though

falling short of success lost nothing of its greatness--thy name is

and for ever will be held sacred to all Australians! In that fiery

furnace of trial, of suffering and death, was formed the mould,

in which throughout the long and dreadful years of war the young

Australian soldier has been cast. From that day onwards, through the

fearful horrors of trench warfare in France and Flanders, on the

burning sands of the East, on land and on sea, the armies of the

young Commonwealth, casting out not only fear but doubt, have dared,

endured, and died, supremely confident of victory.

 

Through the long dark days when the skies were black with omens of

disaster for the Allies, they faltered not, nor for a moment doubted

that the cause for which they fought would triumph. Their record

is a glorious one, and its lustre is no fitful gleam, but shines

brilliantly throughout the long dread years of trial.

 

It is of the deathless story of the Australians before Amiens that

you write, and inspired by such a theme yours will be a story to make

the pulses of all Australians leap in their veins with exultation.

 

When in the Spring of 1918 the great German offensive pressed back

and by force of numbers broke through the sorely tried British line,

the Australian divisions were hurried down from the North and rushed

up to stem the German armies, flushed with triumph and supremely

confident of final victory.

 

The story of the battles fought by the Australians before Amiens

is amongst the most thrilling in the history of this great world

conflict. Here was the fate of civilization decided. The great German

army, marching along the road in column of route, reached the crest

of high land overlooking Amiens, and with but a few miles between

them and this key to Paris, were held up by a veritable handful of

Australians, later reinforced as the rest of the Divisions came to

hand. It was the turning of the tide; the fighting raged around

Villers-Bretonneux, but the car of the German Juggernaut rolled

forward no more. From that day the onward rush of the enemy offensive

was stayed. An impassable barrier had been set up beyond which the

enemy could not pass. But the young soldiers of Australia, not

satisfied with arresting his onward march, began to force the Hun

back; at first slowly, and then faster and faster, until in the great

offensive of August 8, when along with four Divisions of Canadians

and two British, they swept him back in headlong rout, nor gave him

pause until breaking through the vaunted Hindenburg line they stood

victorious at Beaurevoir.

 

The deeds of these brave men will remain for ever fresh in the minds

of Australians. Australia has reason to be proud of her war effort;

she has done great things; but she has paid a great price. That a

small community of five millions all told should have recruited

417,000 men and sent 330,000 twelve thousand miles across the seas,

is a great thing. The number of our dead--57,000--and our total

casualties--289,723--show how great is the price which Australia has

paid for Liberty.

 

Although I have not seen the manuscript of _The Diggers_, with such a

theme it is impossible that the author of _The Children of the Dead

End_ and _The Great Push_ can fail.

 

Sincerely yours,

W. M. HUGHES.

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS

 

 

CHAPTER PAGE

 

I THE SOMME 17

 

II VILLERS-BRETONNEUX 33

 

III TOWARDS PERONNE 41

 

IV MONT ST. QUENTIN 53

 

V THE HINDENBURG TUNNEL 67

 

VI THE DEAD VILLAGE 83

 

VII GRAVES 93

 

VIII CAMBRAI AND AMIENS 99

 

IX IN THE CAFÉ 111

 

 

 

 

THE SONG OF PICARDY (1918).

 

Oh! barren hearth of Picardy

And trampled harvest field,

Say, who will light your fire at night

Or mill your autumn yield?

No more the reaper plies his trade,

The hours of peace are o'er,

And gone the matron and the maid,

And they return no more.

 

The poppies blow in Picardy,

The skylark sings o'erhead,

And flower and bird their vigil keep

Above the nameless dead;

But though above the dark sky lowers,

Beneath its gloom is set

The little seeds of Freedom's flowers,

To rim the parapet.

 

And hearts are strong in Picardy,

Where Hope is still aflame,

Where Freedom's heroes see ahead

The goal at which they aim;

Though drear and cold the ruined hearth

And barren fields are dumb,

A voice breathes soft across the earth

Of peace that is to come.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

THE SOMME

 

 

In the afternoon of October 11, 1918, I found myself with a party

travelling out from Amiens and taking the straight road that runs

eastwards towards St. Quentin across the war harried fields of the

Somme. We had just passed through a country where the harvest was

gathered in, where the hay ricks and cornstacks stood high round

the ancient farmhouses, and we were now in a country where Death

had reaped its sad harvest for over four years, where all was ruin

and decay--a spread of demolition and destruction. This was the battleground of the Somme.