Making a Hole
I was standing with a chum, watching the artillery fire. “Look at the smoke,” I said to him. A moment later a shell came screaming down, and I was knocked kicking by the suction. My chum simply said, “Lordy, look at the hole,” and then I saw I was lying on the edge of a hole made by the shell large enough to bury a horse in: Pte. J. Charley, East Surrey Regiment.
A Hero Indeed
When I got hit, I couldn’t say how long I lay there, but a chum of mine, Tommy Quaife, under a perfect hail of bullets and shells dragged me to safety and said, “Cheer up, Smiler, here’s a fag. I’m going back for Sandy (his other chum).” He never got there. Poor Tommy got a piece of shell and was buried the same night. If ever a hero lived he was one: Sergt. J. Rolfe, 2nd Batt. King’s Royal Rifles.
A Changed View
We put in some wonderfully effective shooting in the trenches, and the men find it is much easier making good hits on active service than at manœuvres. The Germans seemed to think at first that we were as poor shots as they are, and they were awfully sick when they had to face our deadly fire for the first time: Pte. M. O’Keefe, Royal Irish Rifles.
“Oh, Bill!”
Just as I was hit, I said, “Oh, Bill, it has knocked my foot up. Pick it up for me.” He said, “It is all right. Keep still,” and he tied something round my leg to stop the blood running. Then the doctor came up. He said, “The stretchers will be up just now”; but as soon as he went away I was making for the field hospital on my hands and knees. I got so far, and was having a rest when the doctor gave me a lift: Pte. Wilde, Worcestershire Regiment.