Our next stop was at Neslês. We drew up alongside a field of beets just before going into the village, and most of the men fell out of ranks and lay down alongside the road. Some were in the ploughed earth between the rows of beets. The artillery had been firing at us most of the day, but they hadn’t found the range. There were some heavy guns hammering at us, as we could tell from the explosions of the shells.
As usual, when it came time for a rest, the Germans began to locate us. One of the heaviest shells I had yet seen exploded in the field and scattered beets all over the surrounding country. A member of our company right near me was stunned for a few seconds.
Before any one had recovered himself enough to go to his aid, he sat up unsteadily, his head wobbling, his face a mass of red. A few yards behind him was his forage cap. He put his shaking hand up to his head; withdrew it, then looked at his fingers which were dripping red.
“Ah weel, lads, Ah’ve got it noo!” he lamented. “Ah’m sair-r-r-tainly din fur ’cause Ah dinna feel a theng. Ah on’y wesh Ah could ’a got ane o’ the deevils tae me credit afore this!”
By this time two or three of us had run forward and were wiping his head and face. There was no evidence of a wound. Then suddenly some one roared with laughter. The man was covered with the red juice of beets and was entirely unhurt. He had only been stunned. This is the way Mars jests. His humour is always mixed with grimness.
We learned that we were to stop at Neslës overnight, and this, coupled with the fact that we had commenced advancing, put new enthusiasm into us.
Before we arrived there were large vineyards at each side of the road leading up a hill overlooking a beautiful little town, on the south bank of the Petit Morin River. We had a few minutes’ halt within reach of the lovely French grapes, which hung most temptingly in clusters, so it was quite natural that some of the boys who were extremely thirsty and warm from the scorching sun, should partake of this inviting fruit.
Discipline in the British army is second to none; and we were commanded to observe it strictly while on the retreat. One of our orders was “not to pluck fruit,” as it came under the category of “Looting.” Very soon the few fellows who had disobeyed that order were rolling on the ground, holding their stomachs. Later we were told that the grapes on both sides of the road had been poisoned by the Germans. This was punishment enough for those who had eaten the fruit, and a lesson that every one of us “took home.”