Under cover of a thick cluster of trees they sat down and doctored their wounds. There was not a sound man amongst them. Sergeant Mackay had been struck in three places in his right leg; Corporal MacIntyre had had a good square inch of flesh taken off his thigh; Private Findlay had lost three of his fingers; and Bugler Scott—an ear; while, in addition to these slight inconveniences, they were all ravenously hungry and parched with thirst.
“I suggest,” said Sergeant Mackay, after a brief lull in their conversation, “that we push on again and see if we can find some sort of habitation where we can get a mouthful.”
“Aye, mon!” Corporal MacIntyre replied, for during such “sauve qui peuts” all formality of rank is dropped, “It’s the wee drappie I’m thinking after, and unless we get some of it pretty soon there’ll not be any of us left to need it. I’m bleeding like a pig, and so are a good many more of us.”
“Very well, then,” Sergeant Mackay observed, rising with difficulty, and wincing in spite of his efforts to appear comfortable. “Let us press on.”
The men were all absolutely ignorant of their surroundings. They had seen nothing of the country save from the train, and during a few hours’ tramp from the railway depot to the lines they had just evacuated. Consequently, for all they knew to the contrary, the wood that lay in front of them might stretch for miles, or might be inhabited by anything from grizly bears to hyænas—for the knowledge of the British “Tommy” with regard to the fauna and flora of Belgium is extremely limited.
Threading their way through the thick undergrowth, they stole stealthily forward, the roar of artillery still sounding faintly in their ears, till at length they emerged into a wide clearing, at the far extremity of which stood a neatly thatched white cottage. It was so home-like with its small plot of flower-bedecked garden, its walls covered with clematis and honeysuckle, and its tiny spiral column of smoke curling heavenwards, that the bleeding and exhausted men gave deep sighs of relief.
“Reminds me of Scotland,” Private Findlay whispered.
“It’s as like my mother’s cottage as two peas,” Private Callum retorted.
They halted, and were looking at Sergeant Mackay to see what he would do—for bold as the O——’s are in battle, they are often among the most bashful of His Majesty’s troops in time of peace—when suddenly the door of the cottage opened and an old woman appeared on the threshold, armed with a blunderbuss. Glaring fiercely and shouting, she put the weapon to her hip and fired. There was a loud bang, and one or two of the men uttered ejaculations of pain.
“God save us!” Sergeant Mackay cried. “The gude wife takes us for Germans.” Then addressing the woman, who was pouring another handful of shot into the muzzle of her infernal piece of antiquity, he called out, “Are ye daft or glaikit? Dinna ken that we are Scots. Anglais.”