Dug It Out
Stormed at all the way, we kept on, and no one was hit until we came to a white house which stood in a clearing. Immediately the officer passed the gap hell was let loose on us, but we got across safely, and I was the only one wounded, and that was with a ricochet shrapnel bullet in the right knee. I knew nothing about it until an hour after, when I had it pointed out to me. I dug it out with a knife: Private Smiley, at Mons.
“Stand Solid!”
The captain said, “Get up, men; stand solid.” We formed about six deep. Then we gave them the surprise of their lives. We could just see a black mass in front of our trenches, and we let out for all we were worth. We were like devils possessed. I could feel my bayonet go through something soft. Not a German got his foot in the trench. They ran down the slopes like rabbits, and to help them we gave them five rounds rapid: Pte. D. Hamilton, Royal Scots.
The Dying German
When I was hit I lay for hours on the ground, and got chummy with a German chap, who had got a nasty sabre cut in the head, as well as a bayonet stab in the kidneys, and was “booked through.” He knew his number was up, but he was as cheery as though he were at a wedding instead of a funeral.... Almost the last words he said were, “You’ll win this time, and you deserve to win your victory, but we’ll never forget or forgive, and some day a new Germany will avenge us”: A Welsh Private.
Disturbed!
We were having letters and parcels and our breakfast bacon issued out in the trenches when the Germans charged us and captured them. When we took the position again I found my parcel had been opened and the letters had been strewn all over the place. It was an awful slaughter of the Germans, for they were within 20 yards of us and we poured volleys into them. You ought to have heard them yell; it was like a wild-beast show let loose. They came through a thick wood, and that was the reason they got so close: Pte. Westfield, Worcestershire Regiment.
“Annie Laurie”
We were unable to sleep for the pouring rain, and sat at a big camp fire with hot tea and rum. The boys asked me to sing “Annie Laurie,” and I was never in better voice. When I finished there were officers, and even staff officers attracted from their billets, who had come over the field in the rain to join in. I need hardly add that they were nearly all Scotch, and “Annie Laurie” after all is to a Scot what the “Marseillaise” is to a Frenchman: A Bombardier of the Royal Field Artillery.