A young French cyclist named Berger took part in the Battle of the Marne. He saw his colonel lying wounded, and started to carry him to the rear. A British officer who lay near by called out that he was thirsty. Berger shouted encouraging words to him, and promised to return in a few minutes. He carried his colonel into safety, and then came back to the wounded Briton with food and a flask of wine. Bullets from rifles and machine guns were whistling about him, but he heeded them not. He was just raising the British officer's head when a bullet struck him in the hand. Though he was suffering great pain, he put the flask to the wounded man's lips; but at that moment he was struck by a second bullet, which entered his back. The two men lay on the sodden field until dawn, when the battle began again. Soon they saw the Germans advancing, and a body of Uhlans rode by. Berger hailed the officer, and begged him for something to drink. The officer dismounted, gave them drink from his own water-bottle, saluted them, and went on his way. For almost the whole day the two wounded men lay on the wet, miry ground, while the battle raged around them. The Briton by this time was almost unconscious. In spite of his own wounds, Berger partly dragged, partly pushed his fellow-sufferer along until they reached the Allied lines, where by good luck they fell in with stretcher-bearers, who conveyed them both to hospital. As the British officer was being placed on the stretcher he grasped the young Frenchman's hand, and said, "If I live through this I will do my best to get you the V.C. If ever a man deserved it, you do."
At Méry-sur-Marne a French Red Cross train was blown up by the Germans just as it was crossing the river with its load of wounded. This picture shows the scene after the explosion. Photo, Sport and General.
A French newspaper says that after the Battle of the Marne, when the Germans were in full retreat, one of the imperial princes was severely wounded. He was at once conveyed to Epernay,[119] which was still held by a few German troops. No German surgeon could be found, so a staff officer went to a French surgeon who resided in the town and offered him a large fee if he would attend the prince. "My fee," said the doctor, "is exactly the war levy which you have demanded from my native city—175,000 francs."[120] The case was urgent, and the Germans had to agree to pay the doctor's fee. The money was handed over the same evening.
Now I must tell you a few stories relating the adventures of our own countrymen during the advance to the Marne. Here is an account of fighting on the river, from the pen of Sapper Gilhooly of the Royal Engineers: "Last week on the Marne we spent two days on a long mine[121] out towards the German lines, and just as we were getting to the close of our job we heard pickaxes going as fast and hard as you like, and then the wall of clay before us gave way, showing a party of Germans at the same game! You never saw men more astonished in your life. 'Fancy meeting you!' was written all over their faces, and they hadn't recovered from their shock when we pounced upon them. One German was just caught in time with a fuse, which he was going to apply, with the mad idea of blowing us all up! One of his mates was the first to rush on him. They weren't having any 'death or glory,' and I don't blame them. There's a Highlander beside me who is rigged out in the boots of a Belgian infantryman killed at Mons, the red trousers of a Frenchman, the khaki tunic of a Guardsman, and the glengarry cap of his own corps. When he wants to look particularly smart he wears a German cavalryman's cloak. The other day we came on a party of the enemy washing their shirts in a river, and we were on them so fast that they had to fly, leaving shirts and everything else behind. One chap, however, managed to collar his braces!"
The splendid devotion to duty of our doctors on the battlefield is well illustrated in the following letter, which was written by a fellow officer to the brother of Dr. J. O'Connell, of the Highland Light Infantry:—"I am only too pleased to tell you anything I can about your brother, as he was one of us, and in all your life you can never have a prouder boast than that you were his brother. Our first show was near Mons, where he at once came into notice. He personally went into the trench, and helped to carry out the wounded, though the German guns had the range to a T, and were raining shells on it. Then they turned on to his cottage, which was fixed up as a dressing-station, and knocked it to bits. He carried every one out, not losing a single man. During the retreat your brother had the worst of it, because he had to do with the footsore and the sick, who could not keep up, so he was usually behind the rearguard; but he always kept cheery when cheerfulness was worth far more than pluck.
"Then on the advance up to the Marne, when it was pitch dark and pelting rain, and three thousand Germans lay dead or wounded on the field, your brother insisted on staying out there to do what he could for the enemy. It was almost certain death, but he remained there among them for six hours. Next day I lost forty-one men before noon. Your brother, without waiting for food or sleep, came up to look after them, and stayed there for two days while we hung on. When I myself was being tied up I mentioned to your brother that a young subaltern was dying on the field. He at once insisted on going to see if he could do anything for him, although it was within close range of a well-constructed German trench, and while doing this he was killed by a rifle bullet through the head."