They could not know me from a Boche. I was caked all over with mud. I was a strange figure. And I well knew that so many had been the schemes and strategies of the Boche spies that in all probability the Canadians would shoot first and inquire regarding me afterward.
I had to rake my confused mind for a recollection of the lay of the land along the trenches, for a recollection of the secret paths by which they might be flanked and then approached. I never put in a greater effort of will. And finally I remembered.
After that it was just a long stumble. I was falling like a clown at almost every step. I would faint and awaken to find myself flat on my back or on my face.
But in the end I huddled in a narrow pathway so near a Canadian trench that I could hear some chap singing. It didn’t help me any that he was singing a hymn and singing it most lugubriously.
Daylight had come.
My whole thought and effort now were in gathering sufficient strength to utter a yell loud enough to carry to that trench. I was panting. It was agony for me to move my lips. And weak! Good heavens, I would have fallen over at the kick of a rabbit!
I breathed hard, tried to fill my lungs and after a wait of nearly ten minutes, I am sure, let go my “yell.” It was the most pitiful “yell” ever made. It was as slight as a sick infant’s cry. What I had tried to shout was “Oh, Canadians!” Of course, none heard it. So I waited there, resting another fifteen minutes. I tried again to shout. To my surprise my voice came out strong and loud:
“Oh, Canadians!”
With my last strength I repeated the cry and it came loudly again: “Oh, Canadians! Oh, Canadians!”