Just near us was an ordinary entrenching shovel, which had been dropped, or had belonged to some poor chap who had fallen—I can’t say which, but there it was. I crawled up and got hold of it, and before we quite knew what was happening, Andrews was resting on it, and I was doing my best to drag him out of danger.
I cannot say whose idea this was, but it is quite likely that Andrews thought of it first. He sat on the shovel as best he could—he was not fastened to it—with his legs crossed, the wounded leg over the sound one, and he put his hands back and clasped my wrists as I sat on the ground behind and hauled away at the handle. Several times he came off, or the shovel fetched away, and I soon saw that it would be impossible to get him away in this fashion.
When we began to move the Turks opened fire on us; but I hardly cared now about the risk of being shot, and for the first time since I had been wounded I stood up and dragged desperately at the shovel, with Andrews on it. I managed to get over half a dozen yards, then I was forced to lie down and rest. Andrews needed a rest just as badly as I did, for he was utterly shaken and suffered greatly.
We started again at about a quarter past six, as soon as the night came, and for more than three mortal hours we made this strange journey down the hillside; and at last, with real thankfulness, we reached the bottom and came to a bit of a wood. Sweet beyond expression it was to feel that I could walk upright, and that I was near the British lines. This knowledge came to me suddenly when there rang through the night the command: “Halt!”
I obeyed—glorious it was to hear that challenge in my native tongue, after what we had gone through. Then this good English sentry said, “Come up and be recognised!” not quite according to the regulation challenge, but good enough—and he had seen us quite clearly in the moonshine.
Up I went, and found myself face to face with the sentry, whose rifle was presented ready for use, and whose bayonet gleamed in the cold light.
“What are you doing?” said the sentry. “Are you burying the dead?”
I saw that he was sentry over a trench, and I went to the top of it and leaned over the parapet and said, “Can you give me a hand?”
“What’s up?” said the sentry, who did not seem to realise what had actually happened—and how could he, in such a strange affair?