Healing Nicely!
I got shrapnel in the face, and it entered just by my eye and came through my mouth, splitting my face open and fracturing my jaw. Lucky for me my sight is not gone. My face is stitched up and healing nicely, but I’m afraid I’m disfigured for life. The beggars were not content with that—they shot me through the left forearm and fractured the bone. I’ve got it in plaster of Paris. I am glad to say I am not in much pain now, and I am as strong as an ox. I had to leave everything on the battlefield, including my pipe and the pouch you gave me. Your photo, taken at Paddington, I had in a waterproof case with some more: A Private of a Field Battery.
Dazed, but There
All the officers stood round us the whole time, including one young lieutenant who had only just joined the battery from England, and was under fire for the first time. The captain was wounded, but he stood up and cried out, “Go on, lads! I’m not killed yet.” We went on. But another hail of shells came, and the captain fell. We all knew we were in for it; but we cracked jokes as we loaded and fired. One by one the fellows went down. Those left shook hands with one another, and just said, “So long, old man!” My chum at my gun bent down to look through the aperture of the gun shield. A shell came and caught him in the forehead. He tumbled up against me as he fell. Then they got the shells on our limbers. I can’t describe the sight as our own shells exploded on the spot. There were only ten of us now. We had never received the order to clear out, and we stuck it dazed: A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery.
“A Mad Crew”
When I read in books or stories of the coolness of men under fire I thought somebody was blathering. But after eight weeks of it, I can say that no book has ever done justice to the coolness of British soldiers under conditions that would try anybody. The night I was hit we were just leaving the trenches for an interview with some Germans who were trying some of their fancy tricks about our left. As we stood up there was a ghastly shower of bullets and shells bursting all round. Into it we had to go, and as we looked ahead one of our chaps said, “I think we’ll have to get our greatcoats, boys; it’s raining bullets tonight, and we’ll get wet to the skin if we’re not careful.” The men of “C” Company started laughing, and then they took to singing, “Put up your umbrella when it comes on wet.” The song was taken up all along as we went into the thick of it, and some of us were humming it as we dashed into the German trenches. The Germans must have thought us a mad crew: A Private of the Irish Fusiliers.
Saving a Battery
We were sent up to the firing line to try and save a battery. When we got there we found that they were nearly all killed or wounded. Our Irish lads opened fire on the Germans, and you should have seen them fall. It was like a game of skittles. But as soon as you knocked them down up came another thousand or so. We could not make out where they came from. So all of a sudden our officer gave us the order to charge. We fixed bayonets and went like fire through them. You should have seen them run! As the firing line was at full swing we had with us an officer of the Hussars. I think he was next to me, and he had his hand nearly blown off by one of the German shells. So I and two more fellows picked him up and took him to a place of safety, where he got his wound cared for. I heard afterwards that he had been sent home, poor fellow: Pte. Levy, Royal Munster Fusiliers.
Salt and Cigarettes
I am writing this under fire. Every now and again a little message from the Kaiser comes whizzing in this direction, but no damage is being done, and we don’t worry. Bang! Another message. One of the things I miss more than anything else is a drop of milk for tea. Would give 2s. for a tin of condensed milk. Of course, most of the cattle are moved miles away from any battlefield, and consequently no milk can be obtained. There is plenty of fruit and vegetables. But now and again we run short of certain things. For instance, to-day we have run short of salt, and consequently our dinner was not quite the success I anticipated. We made a stew—1½ lb. of corned beef, potatoes, beans, carrots, and pumpkin. This did for three men. I was the cook. To-night for tea we are having bread, bacon, jam, and cheese; but, sad to relate, I have no cigarettes: Private W. Rouse.