A Passing Shell
One day I was in front of my horses with my back to the enemy, just putting on my nosebags, when a shell from somewhere fell between the horses and put the whole six on the ground. I was pulled up in the air by my horse, and he dropped on his back dead. The wheel-horses were struggling, and my wheel-driver was lying dead with his face blown away. I did not get touched, but no sooner did the devils see that their shells were effective than they opened fire with the whole lot of their big guns, twelve in all, and I don’t know how many machine guns. The din was horrible, shells screaming and whistling around me, and the pop-pop-pop of the Maxims. I ran round to the gun and tried to get it unlimbered, but the horses were struggling in the wheel harness and I could not move it. Then I felt a twitch in my arm. I saw blood on my sleeve, and the hole where the bullet went in. The use of my arm was gone. I did not know what to do. I dropped down and crawled out of the firing line. Another fellow came along with a wound in his hand, and we sat there talking together till we were picked up by an ambulance: Driver G. Chiswell, Royal Horse Artillery.
Stuck to Him
I was told to go back to the farmhouse and cut the horses loose. I did so. Then God answered my prayer, and I had strength to run through a line of rifle fire over barbed wire covered by a hedge, and managed to get out of range, and then I fell for want of water. I had just about two teaspoonfuls in my bottle; then I went on struggling my way through hedges to a railway line. When I got through I saw a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water; then he was as happy as if he were not wounded. I stuck to him although he was heavy and I was feeling weak and tired. I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I slipped and we both fell. I had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. I then saw one of my own regiment, and with the help of two Frenchmen we soon got the Irishman on a shutter to a house and dressed him. We got him away from the village, which was being shelled, and then met a company of Cameronian Highlanders and handed him over to them: Pte. G. Kay, of the Royal Scots.
Anchored!
“We’re in for it,” says I to Tommy Gledhill, my chum. “Anything’s better than lying here,” said he. “Anyhow, it will warm us up just as well as brandy, and it’ll help a few more Germans to a place where they’ll not be bothered with chills.” Sure enough, it was as hot as anyone could wish it to be. The Germans were in their best fighting form. They came right up to where we were posted, stopping every few yards to fire into us. Then they came for us with the bayonet, and there was as nice a set-to in the muggy downpour as you could ask for. It was ugly work while it lasted. In the soaked ground it was difficult enough to keep a foothold, but if you want a really tough job just try a little bayonet exercise with a heavy German dancing around you trying to jab a bayonet into you if you should happen to slip in the mud. That’ll give you an idea of what we came through. “Anchored!” We don’t like to be called that at any time, but that morning we were proud when the brigadier called us the old “Stick-in-the-Muds,” and I dare say if it hadn’t been for the fact that some of us caught the wheeze of anchoring ourselves at least a foot deep in the mud we might have been swept away. As it was, it was the Germans who were swept away, and you might say that they were properly rolled in blood and mud, for when any of them went down in that fight they were a sight for sore eyes, or I’m a horse marine: A Private of the Grenadier Guards.
Carted to Hospital
We had not marched more than 500 yards, and got to the outskirts of the town, when we heard a cavalry patrol coming towards us, the officers speaking in French. Our captain immediately challenged in French, and we got no reply. The captain then realized they were Germans, and the order came, “Fire!” The German officers dashed forward and seized the muzzles of the front-rank rifles a second before we had the order “Fire!” and a proper mêlée took place. A German slashed one of our chaps’ head nearly off. All of them (Germans) were wiped out in a few seconds. After that we fired volleys as they charged down on us, and they never got within 50 yards of us. They brought a big gun, and then it was a perfect hell. The gun was only 400 yards away, and was blazing shrapnel into us. Five times we silenced it. It was hell all night. I was shot, and carted off to hospital. My rifle stopped the bullet, and saved my life, or I should have got it in the chest: A Guardsman, at Mons.