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"Christ," whispered Bertie McCallion as he watched the immense black cloud rise high over the ridge.
Rivulets of soil streamed down the side of the front line trench as the incredibly powerful shock wave reached the British lines.
"Fix ..." roared Colour Nulty. And the men poised for that split second so beloved of British army NCOs.
"BAYONETS," screamed Nulty. All within earshot snapped home their cold steel and gripped their rifles just a little bit more tightly.
The shrill squeal of Hartley's whistle split the air.
"Off we go lads," shouted the young officer, as he led the way up the nearest scaling ladder. Unlike 1916, he too was carrying an SMLE with bayonet fixed.
Around him, dozens of men went over the bags as the first wave advanced in artillery formation towards the cataclysmic scene on the ridge.
Out on top, Bertie McCallion looked right and left. As far as he could see there were hundreds of khaki figures advancing towards the German lines. Ahead of them they could see more explosions as the artillery plastered the remains of the ridge with high explosive.
It seemed as though they were walking towards a volcanic eruption and beneath their boots, the ground trembled as if in tribute to the fearsome power unleashed by mankind.
"Please God, please God, please God," muttered Jim Clay as he plodded, rifle at high port, towards the hellish vision.
"We'll be right this time Jim," grinned McCallion. "They've blown the poor ******* to hell."
And to all intents and purposes, his summation of the mining operation's effectiveness was entirely correct. There was almost no retaliatory fire from their objective.
After a few more strides, the platoon realised why.
The still smoking, torn earth was covered in bodies and bits of bodies. Here and there wounded Germans writhed in agony. Others were staring dumbly at the advancing British bayonet line.
"Sarn't Nulty! Emma Gees to right and left ... riflemen to cover. Bombers and bayonet men with me," ordered Hartley. The objective had been reached but the area had to be 'mopped up' of any potential resistance.
A sudden burst of fire sliced into the platoon, and three men collapsed limply.
"To your left sir," roared Nulty, pointing at the lip of a shellhole.
Hartley nodded and made a throwing gesture to Rfn. Shaymen.
Cricket had been Shaymen's sport before the war and his skill as a bomber was well known in the platoon.
In one practiced movement, Shaymen tossed his mills bomb at the enemy position. There was a dull thud as the grenade exploded.
"Into them lads," screamed Hartley as he leapt forward.
Two German machine gunners lay dead beside their weapon. A third German, with unteroffizier insignia on his shoulders, brought his pistol to bear on Hartley's chest.
He fired off one shot at the startled British officer and then the pistol fell from the German's hands.
"Permission to shoot the ******* Sir?" asked Taff.
Hartley shook his head. He bent over the wounded German.
"You are a prisoner, old boy," Hartley informed him. "Your name please."
"Ich bin Ralf Weisskopf," groaned the injured man.
"Past tense I'm afraid .. you WERE Herr Weisskopf," smiled Hartley, and blew the man's head off.
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