I was about the last man that got hit, and I got a proper one too. An explosive bullet got me behind the knee, and blew away my knee and part of thigh and shin. I lay there for a time in the forest with no one but the Germans, who were not at all unkind to me; they gave me water and wine to drink, and two of their Red Cross bandaged my leg up temporarily until the ambulance came along about ten hours later. Well, dad, if I ever prayed I prayed during that time; I was in sheer agony the whole time. Eventually the ambulance came along and brought me back (a prisoner, of course) to a Roman Catholic chapel, which was converted into a temporary hospital, and I lay there till I was brought out to a château, where two German doctors amputated my leg. They did their best for me, but in a rough way. I was there for about ten days with hardly any food, as they hadn’t it for themselves, only dry bread and black coffee. Our own people released us, and took all the Germans who were there prisoners: Sergt. O’Dwyer, Irish Guards.
“Archibald” a Drawback
The Germans have a topsides gun we call “Archibald.” He shoots extraordinarily well on some days and damn badly on others. They always get our height correct, but so far have brought nobody down. Several machines have been hit by his shrapnel bullets and bits of his shell. He also flies a sort of parachute which he uses to range on. The other day we pulled his leg properly by getting between him and a bright sun so that he could not see us properly. He sent up his parachute, height exactly correct, fuse well timed, and proceeded to pepper it no end, all about half a mile away from us. Once I heard his beastly shells whistling above the noise of the engine when we came out of the clouds, so he must have been jolly near. He has a twin brother named “Cuthbert,” who is a large howitzer. His first shot is good, but the remainder always miles behind. “Archibald” certainly is a drawback, as one has to be rather careful to circumvent him, as the blighter’s shooting has improved wonderfully: An Army Airman.
“Here Comes the Last”
It is amusing to hear some soldiers speak when they come down the line, and it is becoming quite a joke to say, “Here comes the last of such-and-such a regiment,” for invariably they claim to be the last—all the others are cut up. It is no doubt the case that some battalions have been severely handled. I met one of the Dorsets—but here hangs a tale. You will know the old bookshop in Churchwallgate. On the day I left Macclesfield I called in to wish the bookseller good-bye. It was mentioned incidentally that he had a relative who had been called up; I had met him on one occasion, and would I be likely to see him again? Of course this was highly improbable, but I did meet him. After we had retired from —— I jumped up on a truck-load of biscuits along with others, and said not a word, being too busy admiring the magnificent beauty of the country in this district. At last we talked of things in general, of the inferior rifle-shooting of the Germans, but with respect of his shrapnel, and I mentioned Macclesfield, hoping to be back at Christmas. A man of the Dorsets cocked his ears. “Macclesfield! Put it there, Corporal,” he said, holding out his hand. “Put it there. I have been weighing you up for the last ten minutes, wondering where I had seen you before. Now I know.” This was the man whom I never expected to see, and we met under difficult conditions on a truck racing hell for leather through a country which a few days later was the grave of many a German soldier: Pte. Dickenson, Army Service Corps.
Saved by a Curé
A smart young corporal accompanied me to reconnoitre, and we went too far ahead, and were cut off in a part of the country thick with Uhlans. As we rode in the direction of —— two wounded men were limping along, both with legs damaged, one from the Middlesex and the other Lancashire Fusiliers, and so we took them up. The men were hungry and tattered to shreds with fighting, but in fine spirits. We soon came across a small village, and I found the curé a grand sportsman and full of pluck and hospitality. He seemed charmed to find a friend who was English, and told me that the Germans were dressed in the uniforms of British soldiers, which they took from the dead and from prisoners in order to deceive French villagers, who in many places in that district had welcomed these wolves in sheep’s clothing. We were warned that the enemy would be sure to track us up to the village. The curé said he could hide the two wounded men in the crypt of his church, and put up beds for them. It has a secret trapdoor, and was an ancient treasure-house of a feudal lord, whose castle we saw in ruins at the top of the hill close by. Then he hid away our saddlery and uniforms in the roof of a barn, and insisted upon our making a rest-chamber of the tower of his church, which was approached by a ladder, which we were to pull up to the belfry as soon as we got there. He smuggled in wine and meat and bread and cakes, fruit and cigarettes, with plenty of bedding pulled up by a rope. We slept soundly, and the owls seemed the only other tenants, who resented our intrusion. No troops passed through the village that night. In the morning the curé came round at six o’clock, and we heard him say Mass. After that we let down the ladder, and he came up with delicious hot chocolate and a basket of rolls and butter. Our horses he had placed in different stables a mile apart, and put French “fittings” on them, so as to deceive the enemy: A Non-Commissioned Officer in the Dragoons.
After the Battle
We, whose work commences only after the battle, have learned to know things that baffle description. Waiting all day long in more or less sheltered positions is sad enough: with the noise of rifle fire and the roaring of the guns we cannot but constantly think of the poor fellows who are being hit. The din of the battle grows less, the night draws on, the moment has now come for us to do our task. With acetylene lamps to light us, we cross the battlefield in all directions and pick up the wounded. As to the dead, alas! how numerous they are! We find them petrified in their last attitude in their last élan. And the crying and moaning of the wounded scattered in the cornfields and among the damp meadows! I know of nothing more poignant than that. The bullets nearly always go right through; wounds in the chest or in the abdomen are almost certainly mortal. Fortunately, such wounds are comparatively few in number. German shells are more noisy than efficient, and their splinters generally only cause small wounds. I must add that the bullets of our rifles are as deadly as those of the Germans, while our shells are far more dangerous than theirs. The poor devils who are hit by them are to be pitied. A good many Germans allow themselves to be made prisoners; they know we will treat them humanely: A Member of the Ambulance Corps.