A few minutes afterwards Corporal Chappell was himself shot in the leg. As best he could he proceeded to hop into safety. Two men of another regiment saw him and carried him to the shelter of a cow-shed and laid him there. It was only some time afterwards that he found that one of the men who had helped to carry him was only less severely wounded than himself. The cow-shed was filthy, the pain severe, he wondered how long he was to lie there alone, and untended.
"Then," said he, "I remembered that my Lord was born in a stable, and I just lay still and went to sleep thinking of Him, and I slept on and on until night fell, and the stretcher-bearers found me and carried me to the rear."
Thus these simple lads help their fellows, preach Christ even in the midst of the battle, and when in sore need themselves, find in the thought of their Saviour comfort and rest and hope.
Then came threatenings in Flanders, and the daring plan of a German advance on Calais. This necessitated the withdrawal of our troops from the lines of the Aisne to the Yser and their replacement by French troops on the Aisne. The transference of our troops was accomplished with the greatest secrecy and skill. It is doubtful if the Germans were acquainted with the transference until it was accomplished. It is perhaps one of the greatest deeds of the war, and speaks of supreme skill and daring on the part of our commander.
The soldiers took it all in good part. "Over incredibly bad roads, often up to the boot tops in mud, they marched with a swing that would have done credit to a Royal Review on Laffan's Plain, and as they marched they chanted their war-song, 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary.' It seemed hardly possible that for three solid months they had been fighting without a single day's rest. As they crossed the Belgian frontier their spirits rose. 'This is better than the last time we crossed it, isn't it, sir? Then we was on the run, having got more than we wanted at Mons, but now the boot's on the other leg. Now if we could only capture 'Kaiser Bill,' or even 'Old one o'clock' (General von Kluck), we might get home for our Christmas dinners after all.'"
Then followed the battle of Ypres, the bloodiest battle of the winter campaign, and one of the most critical engagements of the war. It was now cold—bitterly cold. Rain and snow—snow and rain! The trenches became almost uninhabitable. Frost-bite among the men became common. Many were invalided to the base suffering from rheumatism. All that could be done for the men was done. Warm goat-skin coats were served out, and the men looked more like Teddy Bears than soldiers. Charcoal braziers were sent to the trenches, and, most important of all, the men were well fed.
It was only a thin line to keep back the German hosts. How thin a line no one yet is permitted to tell. But it accomplished its task, and by November 20 reinforcements arrived and the situation for the British was somewhat relieved.
All through the series of battles the chaplains had been busy with their grim work, caring for the wounded and burying the dead.
"Bit of an attack on, sir," said the pioneer sergeant, "but they're firing high, and all the bullets are going well overhead; they don't matter. But there's a sniper who seems to have a line on that grave. It's so dark that it's certain he can't see us, but he seems to have a sort of instinct; as sure as we go near the place he begins firing. There you are, sir; he's at it again. Lucky he ain't a good shot."
But notwithstanding the sniper, the chaplain buried his dead, and then tramped back in the darkness with shells falling all around.