October 25th 1914 - The level crossing part 2 - 2nd Lt George Harry Gristwood is exhausted, he has not slept for two days, and now, along with Corporal William Henry Moreby and thirty others he is knee deep in a drainage ditch just one hundred yards from the railway crossing. He watches as ninety eight men of the regiment are gathered up and pushed towards the North East, their captors, young, aggressive Germans are not treating them kindly. These are the hard neo-socialist troopers of Munich, these are the men that broke D company and Gristwood is incensed. “Corporal, I am not ordering you to go, but I need someone to get help.” Moreby, six foot two and barrel chested had been a Policeman in Leeds before the War began, born in Leicestershire he was called called back to the Regiment when reserves mobilised. He required no second bidding, the young lieutenant must stay with the men, and there was no way he would send one of the youngsters he felt his duty to protect. Climbing out of the ditch, his feet wet through and boots full of water he pushed through the thick undergrowth and into the field behind them. He had already worked out what he would do. The road to Bois Grenier is flat and normally easy to pass, but it is constantly under shell fire. He chooses to take that risk than try and go across country, which would take longer. Dropping low, passing dead horses, bloated now after three days of laying dead, he moves quickly, he has lost his hat and backpack, but he will not drop his rifle. There is little noise from behind him, the Germans are massing again to take advantage of the gap they have created, he knows he must hurry. As he reaches the small town he is challenged by the guards on the road. They can see that he needs help so one of them leads him to the Divisional HQ....... Lieutenant Gristwood has watched intently as more and more Germans find their way to the crossroads, he can see stout officers as they take over the small house that the Brigadier vacated just an hour ago. He has watched as other officers climb the short ladder that leads to the roof of the distillery, have a look around and then climb down. Time is running out, he considers making a charge with the few men he has left but it would be foolish. Suddenly, behind him, there is a splash, he turns to see Moreby laying flat in the ditch, he grins as the big man struggles to gain his footing, all the while holding his rifle above the muddy water. “Thank God you are back,” Gristwood says as he pulls the brave Corporal to his feet. There are more splashes as men from the East Yorkshire Regiment and the Rifle Brigade join them in the ditch. Last, but most importantly three Vickers machine guns are manhandled over the water and carefully set up in cover on the bank facing the now casual Germans. It takes less than two minutes for the trap to be set. It is a massacre, the young German troopers, thinking the battle won, are standing in groups smoking cigarettes, many of which they stole from the captured men who are now almost a mile away being marched towards Germany. The machine guns and the accurate rifle fire of the men in the ditch cut through them like a scythe through corn. Almost as soon as the last of them have fallen, Gristwood is out of the ditch and screaming obscenities as he rushes headlong back to the position he vacated at dawn. He empties his revolver three times as German officers come flooding out of the Brigadiers building. There is no mercy, he has seen what they did to his men, his boys, he does not let them surrender, they die where they stand. In the face of such a fierce onslaught the remaining Germans stagger back along the road. As they leave the outskirts of the small village they are met by the angry men of the Leicestershire regiment in their lines still manned left and right of the road, they also show no pity. Soon the remaining Germans have their hands in the air and are rounded up, almost one hundred of them are marched South. The battle is over, the gap closed, it warrants just two lines in the diary, in the scheme of things it is just one small affair in over one hundred miles of bitter fighting. The significance of the action is lost until 1923. .
Posted on: Sat, 25 Oct 2014 11:45:19 +0000
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