The burning of the poor villagers’ houses was bad enough to see, but the sight of the poor women and children fleeing before the Germans would break a man’s heart. The poor people did not know what to do or where to go. Some of them came to us asking questions, but we, of course, could do nothing, for we did not understand their language and did not know what they were saying. They were in a bad way, and the sight of some of them and their misery brought the tears to the eyes of many of the men of my regiment: Pte. Rossiter, Royal Irish Rifles.
Cried Like Babies
The other day I stopped to assist a young lad of the West Kents who had been badly hit by a piece of shell. He hadn’t long to live, and he knew it, too. I asked him if there was any message I could take to someone at home. The poor lad’s eyes filled with tears as he answered, “I ran away from home and ’listed a year ago. Mother and dad don’t know I’m here, but you tell them from me I’m not sorry I did it.” When I told our boys afterwards about that they cried like babies, but, mind you, that is the spirit that is going to pull England through this war, and there isn’t a man of us that doesn’t think of that poor boy and his example every time we go into a fight: Corporal Sam Haslett.
The “Kiddies”
The worst part, to my mind, was to see the plight of the poor women and children. English people at home cannot realize what these poor creatures suffered. We used to meet them on the road utterly worn out with walking and carrying their babies and the few small things that they had. They wept with joy on seeing us. It seemed grand to be a soldier. No matter how tired we were, it was almost a free fight as to who carried the “kiddy” and the bundle, and there was always a tin or two of our “bully” to spare. We made them spare it if there wasn’t: A Private of the Lancashire Regiment.
Finely Done
When we were waiting for the order to go in I saw a cavalry sergeant who had been badly wounded three times and was still pegging away at it. As he was fighting I saw him go to a badly wounded corporal who was shouting to be taken out of the way of the line. The wounded sergeant bound up the other man’s wound, and then sat him on his own horse and sent him back out of the way. Then I saw the sergeant limp along on foot as best he could after his regiment to fight again. I don’t know what became of him, but I know I shall never see a finer thing as long as I live: A Wounded Hussar.
What McCabe Did
McCabe helped me to dress my knee wound under a hail of shells and bullets. I had been lying there for half an hour when Mac came along. “Hullo,” he said, “what’s up?” “Rip up my trousers,” I cried, “and help me to bind my knee.” While we were getting on with the job the shells started to pepper about. I said, “Clear out, Mac, you’ll get hit.” He said, “After I’ve finished with you.” He then went after the ambulance men, but it was like looking for a bushel of gold. He did not return. I then made up my mind to crawl to safety, so I discarded my rifle and equipment, and with another fellow crawled about 600 yards back through a swede field: Corporal Erler.