The Germans had been trying all day to reach Maple Copse, but we held there. Our artillery observer at Zillebeke now phoned that the Huns were massing in Sanctuary Woods—"Fire must come from somewhere." We pulled the last two guns of the Imperial battery and shoved them out in the open; the crews of the remaining guns of this battery were gone; these guns were 4.05's. On they came, and we let them have it beautifully for a good five minutes, and they faltered and fell back. In another ten minutes they came again, when suddenly hell broke loose from our lines,—the Empire batteries had opened up on them. These batteries derived their name from the fact that they were comprised of Australian guns, South African guns, guns from New Zealand, Canada, Scotland, England, in fact every part of the Empire was represented. For a time they smothered the German batteries in Sanctuary Woods. Then a flock of German airplanes flew over these guns and smothered them partially for a few minutes with their machine guns. This entire action had lasted an hour, and at this moment the little relief party, accompanied by our parson, arrived from the wagon lines. Again we were out of ammunition, and the O.C. asked me if I would volunteer to go to the wagon lines after it. "Yes, sir,"—and I mounted the parson's horse and started.
Although it had now started raining, I left the dugout with nothing on but pants, shirt and boots; I had no gas helmet, no coat, no cap, no puttees,—there was no time to be lost—and I was covered with grease and dirt, and must easily have looked like an African.
I had scarcely started when a shell lifted a tree out of its roots and threw it on the road right in front of me, but the horse cleared it with a jump. I passed a dressing station and the sight was unspeakably sad; laid in rows as thickly as they could be placed, the wounded men in all stages of agony were patiently waiting their turn,—ah, God! how patient those men were,—and scattered here and there on both sides of the road were groups of men who had just begun their last sleep, and at sight of them the horse would shy and balk every few yards. I had no spurs with which to control the animal, and my work was cut out for me! he was an ideal parson's horse, for the brute would hardly go faster than a walk. Getting through the gas barrage, I came to a camouflage hedge, used to screen and protect the traffic on the road, which sheltered me for four or five hundred yards further, and then I emerged again into the open, and again I was spotted. At this point a set of new dressing stations had been established, and they were as busy as bees looking after wounded men, and every moment of the time they were engaged in their work the machine guns of the enemy planes were hammering the stretcher bearers and the wounded men as industriously as though they were attacking fighting men. It was quite evident they knew I was a dispatch rider, and I was a target every step of the way, shells being planted before me, behind me and on each side of me. But I knew the Major's thought was with me every foot of the way; I knew he was counting the seconds until I would reach the wagon lines and deliver the message—and the only message—that would save the position; I knew he was praying for me that very moment and I knew that every man in the battery was doing the same thing. If I failed! It was not with me a question of my life; I didn't care a damn for that, and every man of us, on that day anyway, felt the same. But I must hasten with all the speed that was in me, and I must keep my life, and my head as well, that the others might live.
Finally, I got the horse started on a straight run, came to a bridge crossing the Rampart Canal, but they were shelling the bridge so violently it would have been certain destruction to have attempted getting across. Jumping off, I pulled the horse into a ruined building, and there in the twilight I had a splendid opportunity to view the efficiency of the German observation work. They were making the most determined effort to prevent any communication being sent to the wagon lines for ammunition, and one continual stream of shells was following me down the road; they were dropping as thickly as hailstones for the entire distance up and down the road as far as I could see. I waited there ten minutes and then led the horse out, walking a hundred yards towards the bridge. Then came another burst of shells; again I stopped for a few minutes, made another hundred yards, and another bursting storm of shells. I was walking the horse all this time, but I made up my mind the time had come to make a dash for it. I jumped on his back, lay flat as a pancake, and with a good stout stick I lammed that poor brute as few horses ever were lammed, made a dash for the bridge and got safely across.
About 100 yards over and down came a burst of concussion shells, flying and blowing everything around to smithereens. I was now very close to the square and could see it was being strafed for fair. My experience in watching and timing shell fire now stood me in good stead. I was able by the action of the shells to instantly determine whether the German guns were jumping, rendering their aim uncertain, and, also, to know when the next burst would come, where it would strike, and about how it would operate,—whether gas, shrapnel, or what not. Men were clinging to the walls, trying to take shelter, and it was clearly impossible to get through with the horse. I retraced my steps half way to the ruined building I had just left ten minutes before; I was looking longingly at it, wishing for its friendly shelter, when a shell struck it, blowing it to dust. I then led the horse, hugging the walls as closely as I could, until I got to the edge of the square, then made a run for it across, and had just cleared it when another cluster burst, wounding the horse in the leg. Notwithstanding his wound, he managed to bear me up until I got to the railroad crossing, lying southwesterly from the square about 500 yards distant. Here the airplane spotted me again and directed a barrage to stop me crossing, but I took the chance and got through it. Every step of the way to the bridge crossing the Yser Canal, shells were being planted at my heels. I can only liken my state of mind to that of the tenderfoot in the saloon of the Wild and Woolly, when Halfbreed Harvey, just for the fun of it, took a revolver in each hand and commenced sending the nuggets of lead into the floor at the unoffending feet of the "Lady from the East," just to see him dance. When I came to within 50 yards of it I saw it was clearly impossible to cross on account of the heavy shell clusters that were raining down.
I waited for a lull in the storm, then slipped on the animal's back, dug my heels in its ribs and rushed for it. I was spattered with mud from head to foot from the exploding shells, but not a single splinter reached me.
As I left the bridge of the canal a hole was blown into it, and a working party, that was kept there all the time for the especial purpose of keeping it in repair, crawled out of their hiding places to engage in their perilous task. It was vitally necessary to keep this bridge intact to facilitate the supplies crossing and recrossing every minute of the night.
The friendly cover of a hedge sheltered me for another hundred yards, and here followed a row of buildings that I hugged until I came to a narrow-gauge trench railroad. Clinging to the walls around were hundreds of wounded men waiting for a conveyance. There was an open stretch from this point and the fliers found me again; their machine-gun fire was directed at once fairly into the middle of the road before me and behind me; their range message was again flashed to their heavies and cobblestones were uprooted and flying everywhere; but the good Lord was with me and I pulled through it. A couple of large trees that had been blown down across the road next intervened, but the horse, lame as he was, cleared them.
I reached the Belgian Château; strafing was going on fearfully in an endeavor to smash the headquarters; men were running hither and thither, stringing telephone wires as quickly as they were shot away; battalions of infantry, fresh troops who had not yet been up the line, were working their way to their destination; chaos seemed to reign on every hand. And yet, there was order. Leaving the Belgian Château, there was a hedge for two or three hundred yards which afforded me cover until I got to the road; there I saw a group of enemy airplanes gradually lowering until they got down to within a few hundred yards of the railroad; they dropped their bombs on the batteries here, starting monster ammunition fires and killing and wounding the gunners.
Although pandemonium reigned everywhere, the guns never hesitated to go on with their work as steadfastly as though they were digging drains in peace time. The fierceness of the fire caused the horse to balk continually, and I again had to get off its back and lead it. This fire was from guns from practically every quarter of the Empire. It was impossible to make any speed now, even with the horse, as the road was black with holes everywhere, and I started to go around what is known as Snake Road. Shells were dropping everywhere; dead horses were piled one on top of the other; huge lorries were lying in the ditches and men were emptying them of their contents and carrying the ammunition on their backs up to the batteries. Here and there were small hills of empty shell cases; there was also considerable danger from the loaded shells that were scattered about that had been spilled from the ammunition wagon, as a kick from the horse on the fuse would have exploded any one of them.