Like an Electric Shock
I got five or six bullets in my right thigh. The actual wounding was not very painful—like an electric shock. I fired for over an hour afterwards, then crept to an old barn, where my wounds were dressed. There we had to stay two days under shell-fire. Then they started smashing the place up with shrapnel, knocking the roof on the top of us—without hurting us. We were dragged out. It was night before we could be taken in farm carts to the field hospital. On Sunday the “dirty pigs” shelled that, though the Red Cross flag was flying. It seems to be a favourite game of theirs. We are well away from the fighting line now, our only danger being bombs from airships, which we don’t fear. Our biggest risk now is over-feeding. We are quartered in the finest hotel in Versailles. Crowds of French people collect round the gates and send us presents of flowers, tobacco, and cigarettes, which are very welcome. The people here think the world of the English “Tommy,” and nothing is too good or too expensive to give him. All they ask in return is a button or a cap-badge “to keep as a souvenir of us”: Pte. Graham, Coldstream Guards.
Given up Worrying
One of the coolest things I have seen—and I have seen a few—was an Engineer sergeant and two assistants measuring a piece of the river bank with the tape, and having to lie down every few minutes to dodge shells or extra-strong volleys. The sergeant could not hear some of the figures, so yelled out, “Don’t let your voice be drowned by a ---- German gaspipe.” I assure you that we think no more of bullets and shells than of a cricket ball sent down by a fast bowler. In fact, I have felt more funk when ---- is in form at the wicket than I have at a shell. This may sound awful swank, but when you have lived among shells and bullets for a month it is a case of familiarity breeding contempt. I believe I am the funkiest, or at any rate the most careful, chap in the regiment, but I have long since given up worrying: A Private of the Bedfordshire Regiment.
Safe as Houses
The Germans watched until we halted, and then let fly at us with some shells. They killed about fifteen and wounded about twenty-five. One chap was blown to bits; another got one right through his cheek, and it was terrible to see us after they had bunked. They did not half let us have it. We all lay flat down on our faces waiting every moment for our turn to come. I can tell you I thought my last day had come then. Every time a shell comes it makes a whistle and then a bang, and not half a bang, too. I can tell you it was a relief to everybody, and they would sigh after a bang if not hit. They must have thought we had all gone or been killed or wounded because they stopped for a bit, and then we started to dig ourselves in. Of course we had to dig deep and well underground so as to be out of shell reach. We did not get any more that day, but the next morning they let us know it was time to get up with some of their heavy gun shells. We only got four wounded then, but I can tell you I thought I had got hit. One dropped about fifteen yards in front of my trench, and it lifted me up and dropped me with such a bang that I thought I was counted out. I felt all over me to see what I had got, but no, I am as safe as houses yet: Sergt. T. L. Neal, King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.
Stunned!
What gets at you is not being able to come to close quarters and fight man to man. As a fact we see very little of the enemy, but blaze away at the given range and trust to Providence. For that matter, we see very little of our own fellows, and only know by the ambulance men passing through our lines what regiments are near us. For hours we stick on one spot and see nothing but smoke and something like a football crowd swaying half a mile off. We see all we want of the German flying machines. They are over our lines day and night, and are so common that we do not now take pot-shots at them. The chances of hitting them are about 100 to 1. We hate them, because we know they are signalling the position and range to their artillery, which is awful. The German rifle fire wouldn’t worry a covey of partridges, but their shells are hell. I was stunned by one a week ago. It was a queer feeling, and rather pleasant than otherwise. It fell about six yards in front of me, and I felt as if a rush of lime-kiln gas had hit me. I fell forward, and was carried to the rear, but came to in about half an hour, with no hurt whatever, except that I had a tingling in my nose and eyes, and a bad headache all day. Other chaps say the feeling is the same: Pte. F. Burton, Bedfordshire Regiment.
His Fire Baptism!
It was the first time I had been under fire, and for the first ten minutes I felt a bit nervous, and so, I think, all of us did; but it soon wore off, and seeing our comrades hit by shell seemed to stiffen us. We could see the Germans lying in their trenches more than 1000 yards away: we could see their helmets, which showed up like a lot of mushrooms. While we were still digging our trenches the enemy began to advance; and some of our cavalry to our rear came through us to attack the enemy. The Lancers, however, were met by a tremendous rifle and machine-gun fire, and mown down; and they retired through us, followed by the Germans, who came on yelling with fixed bayonets. The regiment who were next us on our right digging themselves in, got caught, I fancy, for I saw some of their men tumbling out of their half-finished trenches in their shirt-sleeves without their rifles. We were ordered out of our trenches to meet the advancing Germans, who, firing from the hip, and with fiendish yells, were evidently intending to rush us. They were coming on in dense blocks—blocks which were probably companies—in échelon, but when they saw us come out of our trenches with our bayonets fixed they didn’t like it, and most of them turned and ran. Some of them, however, came on, and I saw one man single me out and come for me with his bayonet. He made a lunge at my chest, and, as I guarded, his bayonet glanced aside and wounded me in the hip; but I managed to jab him in the left arm and get him on the ground, and when he was there I hammered him on the head with the butt-end of my rifle. I think I had become a bit dazed, for I did not see my battalion, only a few dead and wounded lying on the ground: A Private of the Yorks Light Infantry.