I thought of our poor fellows writhing in agony from the gas poisoning, and any feelings of pity were easily suppressed. In fact, at the time I fairly exulted in seeing them mown down. Three times that night they launched attacks and at their third attempt succeeded in again forcing us to retire by sheer weight.
Contrary to so many, I consider the Boche a brave man. Their advance at this time proved it. They were literally mowed down at times when attacking; but, still, they came on, scarcely faltering. As an individualist, Fritz is, to a degree, inferior to the poilu or Tommy. The perfection of the Prussian war machine has this flaw—its iron discipline has killed the initiative of its private soldiers. Without their officers they seem to wilt and, in many cases, promptly surrender. At this time, however, Fritzie was flushed with the thrill of pushing us back, and, therefore, full of fight. Any prisoners we took were always ready to inform us that Germany was invincible, and that their release would soon follow.
Do not, dear reader, call the Boche coward because he surrenders. For you, it is easy to say you would fight to the death rather than be taken prisoner, but consider a man who has endured a week's bombardment—crash! crash! crr-r-r-r-mp! Roaring, blasting, one hideous din, for days; everything being smashed to smithereens; the smoke, the fumes, the stench, and last, but not least, dead and mangled comrades lying around.
Now, think how much fight there would be left in you.
Shell fire will destroy the morale of any soldier, for when a man is fair enough to look facts in the face, he will acknowledge that courage is common to any nation. No nation has a monopoly of it, and the German has his share.
In these days, perhaps, he gives in rather easily; but he is getting hell from the Allied artillery—at least on the Western Front. And, who knows, perhaps doubts of their ultimate triumph have begun to assail them. I have seen them fight well with the bayonet, and a clump on my head from a Hun no bigger than myself I well remember. I hate to admit it, but he licked me honestly and fairly; and only his sportsmanship saved me. He simply knocked me silly—and passed on. I hate and loathe their barbarity—I hate them for bringing this hell upon the world, but I am English, and as such, must give the other fellow his due.
In my experience with their infamous deeds in Belgium and France, I always remember two occasions when the Huns belied their name. One of them came within range of my own experience. During our retirement one of our men was hit in the leg, and of course fell down. It was impossible to take him with us, for we had to get back quickly in order to make conjunction with the other troops who had fallen back. Much as we hated the idea, we had to leave him. That, unfortunately, is the fate of many of the wounded when retiring. He was taken prisoner and, naturally, we thought he had either been bayoneted, or was on his way to Germany. Judge of our surprise, when in billets, the man walked into our farmyard. We crowded around, simply crazy to hear how he had hoodwinked the Germans and escaped. We marveled when he told his story.
He had been taken by a mob of Saxon troops. He expected either death or capture. These men, however, dressed his wound; inoculated him against the possibility of lockjaw; placed him in a cellar with clean straw to lie on, and when his slight wound permitted him to walk, they allowed him to make his escape to his own lines.
Once, since I have returned, I was told a story by one of the Princess Patricia Regiment. At a certain place in Belgium a dozen or so of the Pats were lying behind some cover. The day was a quiet one, and the Pats had that heavenly concoction called "char" in mind. "Char" is tea to those unacquainted with English. They had the wherewithal for the making of the tea with the exception of the water. Of course there was enough lying around to float a boat, but anyone who has smelt that "aqua vitae" would not dream of using it for tea. When a seasoned soldier will not use it, it is pretty bad.
A little distance from where they were lying was a pump from which good water could be obtained, but covering the pump and the approach to the pump was a sniper. However, a hot drink is worth risking something for and a man started out to try and bring back some water. Crack! down he went. The man was badly hit but not killed, and his chum determined to try and get him in. He went out, expecting to be hit every second, but nothing happened and he carried his stricken chum in. Now Fritzie has a habit of firing on anything that moves, and the Pats wondered. At last, another man, feeling sure that the sniper had either retired for the day, or had gone to lunch, set forth to fetch the water. Again that ominous crack, and again a prone figure. Again a chum sallies out to at least try and save his stricken comrade, if he is not shot dead. He returns with his chum unhurt. This happened a third time, and then it dawned on the Pats that a soldier who was a gentleman and a sportsman was sniping in the German lines.