Joy! The last leap I took landed me in a trench, and I found to my great relief that it was the lower part of the square which ran through the wood. A few yards along this trench it emerged into the open, where it was in possession of the Germans.
Farman and I sat down, side by side, breathing heavily from our exertions.
"That was hell, Farman," I said, hardly daring to trust my voice.
"Awful!"
"I hope the men are still following."
"Those that are left."
"Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to see us smoking."
"Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone."
"Save your water; we've still got the attack to do. We've got an hour yet; that will give the men time to recover."
By this time, one by one, the men began to jump into the trench. As the men arrived, their faces pale and eyes started, we called them by name. They looked up and smiled with relief at seeing us sitting there, side by side. They recognised that the last jump had been made, and for the time being, at any rate, they were safe.
We had started through the wood, about one hundred and thirty strong, and barely eighty mustered for the final attack.
Some men of C Company appeared, threading their way along the trench. Farther in the wood, the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to arrange details for the attack.
"You got your new orders in time, then," I remarked.
"Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost heavily already, and we've still got to go over the top."
"I've got orders to take half the battalion bombers from you; where are they?"
"I would like to keep them; there are notmany left, and they are badly broken up—been fighting all night."
"All right, you keep them. I'm going to form up between here and that broken tree. Will you form up farther to the left?"
"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap."
"Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!"
I never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell, riddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the subsequent attack.
"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon had arrived.
A young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted.
"I am in command, sir."
His tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride at finding himself in command of the platoon.
"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked.
"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through thechest. The last I saw of him he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle."
"All right; do you understand your orders?"
"Yes, sir, quite."
"Return to your platoon, and await orders to form up."
He saluted and doubled back to his men. I forget his name, but he was a fine fellow, that sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at his new responsibility.
So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; very young, only about twenty; good company in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him to give his water-bottle to some one else when he could go no farther.
Farman was my only subaltern left. Suddenly he gripped my arm and pointed into the wood:
"Look over there. Who are those fellows creeping along that trench?"
I looked in the direction he was pointing, and there, to my astonishment, on the very ground just vacated by C Company, about a dozen figures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallowtrench. I thought at first they were coming in to surrender; but they made no signs, but were evidently making the best of cover.
What were they up to? There were only about 12 of them, and I had between 70 and 80 men. For such a small number to come out alone and attack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expecting them to throw up their hands and come in. Perhaps they thought they had not been seen. I picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the last man but one; I missed.
Still they kept creeping on. I fired a second time at the same man, and he dropped. The thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bobbing along a trench; I felt for a moment as though I were shooting rabbits.
The next moment I realised their object. By this time they had worked well round my flanks. They were evidently a few daring men, who were trying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention of throwing bombs while we were in a congested area, occupied in forming up for the attack. A daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men throwing bombs at close quarters could wipe us off the map, or, at any rate, could do enoughdamage by shock action of this kind to prevent our attack starting.
I dared not give any order to fire for fear of hitting the men of C Company. The situation was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero hour was close at hand. The same thoughts were running through Farman's mind.
"Shall I have a go at them?" he said.
"Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them with the bayonet; then join the attack as a fourth wave."
I watched Farman and his platoon with bayonets fixed, creeping on all fours towards the German bombers. That was the last I saw of them, as it was within 10 minutes of zero hour, and we were not yet in battle formation.
I heard afterwards that they did the job well. But to part with the platoon and my only remaining officer at this critical moment was a great loss to me; for I could not count upon them in the attack for which I had now only three platoons left—about sixty men.
Half my strength had gone, and the real attack had not yet begun. I sent for the remaining platoon commanders and explained the situation:
"No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. Form up and extend along the edge of the wood and await my signal to advance into the open. No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; and No. 8 Platoon, assemble in the trench close up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed along the trench parallel with the advance, bombing it out as they go along."
The men formed up. The minutes seemed to be like hours. We were facing the inside of the square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, and as though anticipating our intention, shells were bursting and bullets whistling on all sides.
How peaceful England must be at this moment; how pretty the villages! And how wicked this hell seemed in front of us! And these were the men of England—nice chaps, only Territorials.
One used to meet them in the city every day. Some were awful nuts. See them at lunch; watch them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station between 9 and 10 o'clock in the morning, with newspaper and walking-stick; see them in the banks, bending over ledgers. You could hardly believe it; but these were the same men.
They were not very trim just now; their hands are grimy as they clutch at their rifles, undaunted by the terrors they have already passed through and the sight of their fallen comrades left groaning in the wood.
There they are, extended and lying flat on the ground, waiting further orders. They have come through one hell by the skin of their teeth, and are patiently looking into another hell; their lives were counted by minutes, these office men. But their eyes were fixed on the far side of the square trench which was to be their objective; unless by God's will, and for the sake of England, they found an earlier one.
London men! Some may call you "only Territorials." Training has been your hobby; but fighting was never your profession.
What will England think of this? England may never know.
Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before? If a man is killed in England there is an inquest. People read about it in the papers.
Are the people left behind in England suffering hardships uncomplainingly, and gritting their teeth like you are? You are only getting a boba day. England needs you; you are masters. Why don't you strike at this critical moment?
No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. You are men! There are those in England this day who work for England's cause; there are others who are enriching themselves by your absence; there are homes which will feel your sacrifice.
You have seen the wasted homes and the ghastly outrages in France; and between that picture and the green fields of England you must make your stand; those in England will depend upon you this day.
Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and death are within a few yards of you. There will be no pictures of your deeds; there are no flags or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the dirty ground on the edge of Leuze Wood, with hell in front of you, and hell behind you—hell in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches on the right.
One more minute and you will stand up and walk into it. My lads! It's for England!
At last the thunder of our guns towards the German lines confirmed the hour. Zero hour had arrived; the barrage had begun.
"No. 6 Platoon will advance."
The front line jumped up and walked into the open. Wonderful! Steady as a rock! The line was perfect.
On the left the front line of C Company has also emerged from the wood; the bombers of No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery trench.
The tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed from several parts of the square, while the crack of rifles increased in intensity.
No. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into the open, followed by the third wave.
I extended my runners and followed.
What followed next beggars description. As I write these lines my hand hesitates to describe the hell that was let loose upon those men. No eye but mine could take in the picture so completely.
Will the world ever know what these men faced and fought against—these men of the City of London? Not unless I tell it, for I alone saw all that happened that day; and my hand alone, weak and incapable though it feels, is the only one that can do it.
Barely had I emerged from the wood with my ten runners when a perfect hurricane of shells were hurled at us, machine-guns from several points spraying their deadly fire backward and forward, dropping men like corn before the reaper. From all three sides of the square a hurricane of fire was poured into the centre of the square upon us, as we emerged from the wood.
In far less time than it takes to record it, the attacking waves became a mere sprinkling of men. They went on for a yard or two, and then all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom I had extended into line, were dropping fast.
The situation was critical, desperate. Fearful lest the attack should fail, I ran forward, and collecting men here and there from shell-holes where some had taken refuge, I formed them into a fresh firing-line, and once more we pressed forward.
Again and again the line was thinned; and again the survivors, undaunted and unbeaten, reformed and pressed forward.
Men laughed, men cried in the desperation of the moment. We were grappling with death; we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad, blindly hysterical. What did anything matter? Farther and farther into the inferno we must press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping, rushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; and still the fire continued with unrelenting fury.
I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself within ten yards of my objective. My three remaining runners jumped in alongside of me. They were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson.
Arnold was done for! He looked up at me with eyes staring and face blanched, and panted out that he could go no farther, and I realised that I could count on him no more.
I glanced to the left, just in time to see three Germans not five yards away, and one after the other jump from a shell-hole which formed a sort of bay to their trench, and run away.
Wishing to save the ammunition in my revolver for the hand-to-hand scuffle which seemed imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired. I missed all three; my hand was shaky.
What was I to do next? The company on my left had disappeared; the trench just in front of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with me three runners, one of whom was helpless, and in the next shell-hole about six men, the sole survivors of my company.
Where were the supports? Anxiously I glanced back toward the wood; why did they not come?
Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but the hand of death had dealt with them even more heavily in the wood than it had with us.
My position was desperate. I could not retire. My orders were imperative: "You must reach your objective at any cost." I must get there somehow. But even if we got there, how long could I hope to hold out with such a handful of men?
Immediate support I must have; I must take risks. I turned to brave Dobson and Wilkinson:
"Message to the supports: 'Send me two platoons quickly; position critical.'"
Without a moment's hesitation they jumped up and darted off with the message which might save the day.
Dobson fell before he had gone two yards; three paces farther on I saw Wilkinson, the pet of the company, turn suddenly round and fall on the ground, clutching at his breast. All hope for the supports was gone.
At this moment the bombing section, which by this time had cleared the mystery trench, arrived on the right of the objective; and to my delirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench in front of me running away along the trench.
It was now, or never! We must charge over that strip of land and finish them with the bayonet. A moment's hesitation and the tables might again be turned, and all would be lost. The trench in front must be taken by assault; it must be done. There were six or seven of us left, and we must do it.
I yelled to the men:
"Get ready to charge, they are running. Come on! Come on!"
I jumped out of the shell-hole, and they followed me. Once again I was mad. I saw nothing, I heard nothing; I wanted to kill! kill!
Pf—ung!
Oh! My God! I was hit in the head! I was blind!
I was wounded! I was blind! But the moments that followed are clear in my memory. The brain shocked by a blow works quickly and actively in its excited effort to hold its own.
I was quite conscious and thinking clearly: I knew what had happened and what would happen; I remembered every detail.
My head at the moment was inclined to the right, for I was shouting to the men. Like a flash I remembered that about fifty yards to the left of me there was a "German strong point" still occupied by the Germans. A bullet had entered my left temple; it must have come from a sniper in that strong point. The bullet had passed clean through my head; I thought it had emerged through my right temple. I was mistaken on that point, for I found some days laterthat it had emerged through the centre of my right eye.
I remember distinctly clutching my head and sinking to the ground, and all the time I was thinking "so this is the end—the finish of it all; shot through the head, mine is a fatal wound."
Arnold jumped up, and catching me in his arms, helped me back into the shell-hole.
I hesitate to tell what followed. But as I am trying to record the sensations experienced at the time of receiving a head wound, I will describe the next experience simply, and leave the reader to form his own conclusions.
I was blind then, as I am now; but the blackness which was then before me underwent a change. A voice from somewhere behind me said: "This is death; will you come?"
Then gradually the blackness became more intense. A curtain seemed to be slowly falling; there was space; there was darkness, blacker than my blindness; everything was past. There was a peacefulness, a nothingness; but a happiness indescribable.
I seemed for a moment somewhere in the emptiness looking down at my body, lying in theshell-hole, bleeding from the temple. I was dead! and that was my body; but I was happy.
But the voice I had heard seemed to be waiting for an answer. I seemed to exert myself by a frantic effort, like one in a dream who is trying to awaken.
I said: "No, not now; I won't die." Then the curtain slowly lifted; my body moved and I was moving it. I was alive!
There, my readers, I have told you, and I have hesitated to tell it before. More than that, I will tell you that I was not unconscious; neither did I lose consciousness until several minutes later, and then unconsciousness was quite different.
I have told you how clear was my brain the moment I was hit, and I tell you also that after the sensation I have just related, my brain was equally clear, as I will show you, until I became unconscious.
Call it a hallucination, a trick of the brain, or what you will. I make no attempt to influence you; I merely record the incident—but my own belief I will keep to myself.
Whatever it was, I no longer feel there is any mystery about death. Nor do I dread it.
Arnold was busy tearing open the field dressing which I carried in a pocket of my tunic.
"Use the iodine first, Arnold; it's in the pocket in a glass phial."
"The glass is broken, sir."
"In a piece of paper there are two morphia tablets—quick, better give them to me."
"They are not here, sir." And he bound the dressing round my eyes as the blood trickled down my face.
"Quick, Arnold, my right pocket—feel in it; some papers there—a secret code—take them out—tear them up—quickly; tell me have you done it?"
"Yes, sir, I have done it."
I was sinking; I felt myself going; I felt that the end was at hand. I clutched his shoulder and pulled him towards me:
"Arnold, I'm going. If you get back—tell my—wife—" But the message that was on my lips was not finished; I could speak no more. I was dropping into space, dropping, dropping; everything disappeared, I remembered no more.
I do not know how long I remained in thiscondition. I remember gaining consciousness and finding Arnold by my side.
Something terrible was happening. I gradually began to realise that another attack was taking place over my head. This time the fire was coming from both sides. A stream of bullets seemed to be pouring over the shell-hole. The meaning was obvious: a machine-gun had been placed in the trench ten yards away, and its deadly fire was pouring over the shell-hole in which we lay. Loud explosions were taking place all round us, and with each explosion the earth seemed to upheave, and I felt the thug, thug of pieces of metal striking the earth close by; whilst showers of earth kept falling on my body. I couldn't last long. The guns of both sides seemed to be searching for us; we must soon be blown to pieces.
How long this lasted I cannot say. I was weak; my shattered nerves could not stand such a terrible ordeal. I lay huddled and shivering at the bottom of the shell-hole, waiting for the jagged metal to strike my body, or be hurled, mutilated, into the air.
Again I became unconscious. When I nextrecovered my senses Arnold was trying to lift me, to carry me away, but his strength was not equal to it. He laid me down again.
The firing had ceased. He seemed to be peering out of the shell-hole and talking to me. I think he was planning escape. It must have been dark, for he seemed uncertain about the direction.
Then I began to vomit; I seemed to be vomiting my heart out, while Arnold seemed to be trying to comfort me.
I again became unconscious. When I regained consciousness for the third time it seemed to me that I had been insensible for a great length of time. But I seemed to be much refreshed, although very weak.
Everything was silent, uncanny; I could see nothing, hear nothing. Yes, I remembered; I was shot blind, and I was still in the shell-hole. I felt my head; there was a rough bandage round it, covering my eyes. The bandage over my right eye was hardened with blood, and dried blood covered my left cheek. My hair was matted with clay and blood; and my clothes seemed to be covered with loose earth.
But what did this uncanny silencemean?—Arnold, where was he? I called him by name, but there was no response. I remembered the firing I had heard: yes, he must be dead.
In my blindness and despair I groped on my hands and knees around the shell-hole to find his body. He was not there.I was alone!
I did not know at the time, of course, what had become of Arnold; but I found out later.
Fearing I was dying when I lapsed into unconsciousness again, after my fit of vomiting, he decided under cover of darkness to try and find his way back to the British lines to bring me aid.
After stumbling about in and out of shell-holes, he suddenly saw the barrel of a rifle pointing at him from a trench close by, and following him as he moved; and a moment later he was a prisoner.
Understanding German, he told his captors that I was lying out in No Man's Land, and begged them to send me medical aid; and they answered that stretcher-bearers would be sent to make a search.
Whether the stretcher-bearers were sent or not I do not know; but if they were, they were notsuccessful in finding me; for to the best of my belief it was on the Monday morning that I again regained consciousness, to find myself alone—two days after I had been shot.
It is difficult for me to describe my feelings when I found myself alone. I had no pain, I seemed to feel very small and the world very large. I sat up and felt my head; my face felt twice its usual size, and seemed sticky and clammy with earth and blood.
Everything was so silent.
There was a great lump of hardened blood where the rough field dressing covered my right eye; my left cheek, nose, and lips were swollen tremendously.
Whether it was night or day I did not know. But I knew I was blind. I tried to collect my thoughts and to reason out my position.
Where was the German line, and where was the British? I knew that I must be a considerable distance from the British line; but which direction it was in, I could not tell.
If I were to crawl, which way should I go and where should I find myself? Better to make the attempt and take my chance, than lie where Iwas. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl up the side of the shell-hole. But I had not reckoned on my weakness; the world was so large and I was so small.
Before I could reach the top my strength gave out, and I slid to the bottom. Again and again I tried, and with each attempt I kept slipping back, each time, bringing with me a pile of loose earth.
At last I realised how hopeless it all was, with so little strength. And unable even to reach to the top of the shell-hole, how could I hope ever to reach the British line across the sea of shell-holes which intervened? I seemed so far from everything; though little did I dream at the time that German soldiers were within a few yards of me in the trench from which I had driven them by such desperate efforts two days before—two days! Surely it was two years!
Then my fate dawned upon me. Of course the end was quite logical. This was the end; it could not be otherwise. Had I not made up my mind it would come? Surely I did before I started? Was I not shot through the head and left to die? Well, this was the proper place todie. But what surprised me was that the thought of dying seemed so comforting. I was so weary, and death seemed so peaceful.
I have heard people say that when a person is drowning, after the first frantic struggles are over, a delightful sensation of peacefulness comes over him, and he ceases to desire to help himself. That was how I felt at that moment. This shell-hole was my grave. Well, it seemed quite right and proper.
The idea of getting back to life after suffering so many deaths seemed very unreasonable. My sensations were those of one who had awakened to find himself buried alive. To be alive at all was cheating death, which held me firmly in its grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly for the end.
The life of the world seemed so far away from me. My family, my home, my friends and scenes that I used to know so well seemed in a misty past, a long, long way away—a different age.
After all, it did not matter very much. It was all so very long ago. It had all happened long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I was now a memory.
Now, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. I will say, further, that I was never so clear-headed in my life. I had little power in my limbs. My brain was never more calm and calculating and indifferent to the death which I knew was at hand.
It was not nerve, because I had none. It had nothing to do with the question of pluck or cowardice. It was simply the state of the brain before its last kick. I had ceased to resist my fate; I accepted it. I was not dead yet—but I was to die there, and that was to be my grave.
I began to think out calmly in what way my life would flicker out, and I concluded that it would come as a result of my wound during a period of unconsciousness, or by the slower process of thirst, starvation, and exposure. In the latter case I should probably have violent spasms or struggles. I had better prepare myself.
I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. There was a pile of loose earth, which stuck against my body awkwardly. With my hands and feet I scooped it out until my body lay comfortably in a hollow, with the loose earth forming a sort of bed. In doing this I found awater-bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. There was only a drain in it, which I drank, and threw the bottle away.
I next searched my pockets for food and found a small crust, the remains of what had been my food the day before the attack. I placed this carefully in my pocket for use at the time when I should experience the final pangs of starvation. My own water-bottle still contained about half a pint of water. I placed this on the ground, close to where my face would be, so that I could clutch it readily.
These preparations over, my brain began to get tired. There was nothing else to be done; everything was ready. I would lie down now and wait for the end. I laid my head on the ground, using the side of the shell-hole as a pillow.
I was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed almost like a bed. After all, I was a lucky fellow to be able to die in a comfortable way like this. I wondered how long it would really be—days more, perhaps, but still I could wait. Yes, the life of the world was a very long way away; after all, it did not matter.
How long I waited in this position I do not know, but it suddenly occurred to me that I was passing away, and for a moment all the old scenes came closer. They were passing by in a sort of procession.
A sudden impulse caused me to raise myself into a sitting position. I waved my hand above my head and shouted out, "Good-bye." The procession was over. I lay down again and waited for the end.
A moment or two later something occurred which caused my wearied brain to be roused again into activity. What could it mean?
I was again thinking hard, listening intently; something undefinable had happened to suddenly revive my mental condition. Had I passed away, and was this the next life? I felt like one who had awakened out of a dream in the dead of night, conscious that some one or something was moving near him.
"Englishman! Kamarade!"
Great God! I was found!
Had I the strength I should probably have screamed with joy, for that was my impulse at hearing a human voice. A second later and my feeling was to shrink from discovery. Surrender? Was it then to come to this, after all?
I did not answer; it was not necessary.
He must have heard me shout; he must know where I am. I was unarmed and helpless; what need to answer such a call? He would probably seek me, and I should be found without need to foul my lips with an answer.
And then I felt that it was not my life that was being saved, but a lingering death avoided by a murderous, but quick despatch. Well, perhaps it was better it should come that way.
Presently I heard some one crawling towards me. A few pebbles rolled down the slope, and there was silence again. I felt that he was looking down at me. Again a shuffle, and a quantity of loose earth rolled down the slope, and he was sliding down towards me.
The supreme moment had arrived. Would it be a bullet or a bayonet thrust; and where would it strike me?
I lay perfectly still. He seemed to be bending over me undecidedly. I thought he might believe me dead and go away without finishing me off, to seek the cause of the shout elsewhere.
I raised myself on my elbow and turned my face towards him. Then, to my astonishment heput his arms around my body and raised me up. What strange wonder was this? He put my arm around his neck, and with his own arm around my body, he raised me to my feet. But I could not stand. Then, placing both arms firmly around me, he dragged me out of the shell-holes. I felt myself being dragged several yards, and then he stopped.
I heard many voices talking below me. What would happen next. Then several hands caught hold of me, and I was lifted into a trench.
Some one gave an order, and I was dragged along the trench and around a corner. More voices seemed to come from still farther below. Some one picked hold of my feet, and I was carried down several steps. I was in a dugout.
It seemed warm and cosy. There were officers around me. Here must be the company commander whom I had driven away two days before. Now he could take his revenge. What mercy could I hope from him?
A voice asked me a question in English. But by this time I had collapsed completely. I tried to speak, but no sound would come from my throat. My head seemed to be an enormoussize; my jaw would not move. I felt some one examine my tunic and examine my pockets. No, there were no papers there. I heard some one say "Hauptmann." Then more talking.
A cigarette was put in my mouth. I held it between my swollen lips, but could not inhale. A sharp command was given, and once more I was lifted up on to some one's back, and was being dragged down a long communication trench.
I was able presently to realise that I was in a dressing-station, for I was laid on a stretcher. Some one bent over me, evidently a medical officer.
My throat was parched. Oh, how thirsty I was! He was saying something to me in English in a very kindly manner. He opened a bottle of Seltzer water, and, lifting me up, placed it to my lips. Oh, how thirsty I was! I held out my hand for more. Bottle after bottle of Seltzer water was opened, and I drank one after the other. In my haziness I seemed to be wondering how they came to be supplied with such quantities of Seltzer water so close up to the front line.
He opened up my tunic and rubbed something on my chest. I heard him say, very gently:
"Injection against tetanus. It won't hurt you"; and then I felt a very slight pin prick. He laid me down again. My head was throbbing.
How hot and stuffy it was! I heard some groans, voices were speaking in a low tone. I again heard the word, "Hauptmann."
Of the days which followed I have only a hazy recollection. My brain and body sustained during the period of danger and strain, collapsed completely, and during the next six days I had only occasional periods of sensibility.
I can, therefore, only recall the facts between the time of my being picked up and my arrival at Hanover, six days later, in a disjointed manner.
Telling only of incidents, which stand out here and there in my memory, it must be borne in mind that during the operations of September the 8th and 9th I had felt the weight of my responsibility; and the great shock caused by my wound and the two days' exposure and suffering that followed, imposed a great strain upon my system, and reaction had now set in.
My wound had received no attention, and my right eye was hopelessly mutilated. The optic nerve of my left eye was damaged beyond repair, and the eye itself was obscured by an enormous swelling. My sense of smell was gone, and my cheeks, nose, and mouth were swollen and numbed to a painful degree.
I had lost power in my lower jaw, which would barely move. My nerves were completely shattered, and the mere touch of a hand would make me shrink with fright.
I had lost my voice, and during the occasional periods of sensibility, I could only speak in a startled whisper, while my brain in hideous delirium would constantly take me back to the scenes through which I had just passed.
I remember my stretcher being lifted and being placed in a horse-drawn ambulance with several others. Before leaving, the M.O. gave me a bottle of water, and so great was my thirst that for several days I kept this tightly gripped in my hand, and would not part with it except to get it refilled.
I have a hazy idea of being transferred from one ambulance to another, and several journeys.The ground was very rough, and the shaking of the wagon seemed to cause great pain to other occupants. The bumping to my own head compelled me to raise it from the pillow and resist the jolts by resting it on my hand.
Where I spent Monday night I do not know, but on Tuesday night I found myself in what must have been a small hospital in a town I do not remember.
It seemed to me that I was in a sort of basement of a private house, and that a man and woman were watching over me, exhibiting very great kindness and compassion.
I seemed to awaken from my stupor, and remember some snatches of conversation, as they bent over me, for they could both speak a little English.
Blood and clay were still caked on my face and hair; and my uniform was sticky with blood and grime. Oh, how I wished I could take it off and be put into clean clothes and a bed!
The man was taking off my boots:
"Dese very goot boots, yah?"
I assented in a whisper.
"You have dem give you, yah?"
"No," I whispered, "bought them myself."
"Where do you buy such goot boots?"
"London."
"Ah, yah. I thought you would not get such goot boots for nothings. Look after dem well; we don't get goot boots like dat here."
I whispered to him:
"What is that noise?"
"Ah, it is a pity. Ze English zey have been firing ze long-range guns here, big guns. Zay carry twenty-seven miles. Ve moved dis hospital two times, yah."
The woman came up to my stretcher with a basin of soup. I shall never forget that basin of soup. It was probably very ordinary soup, but when I tasted the first spoonful I devoured it ravenously, for all this time I had not realised that I was suffering from starvation. For the past three days not an atom of food had passed my lips, and for two days previous to that an occasional bite of bread and cheese was my only ration. Even now I was not destined to receive the nourishment my body craved for; for one basin of soup per day was all I received during the remainder of that week.
Still grasping my bottle of water under my blanket, I was removed next morning and placed in a freight truck with two others, one a sergeant in the Guards, and the other a private in the ——, London Regiment. We were locked in the truck, and kept there for many hours without food or conveniences of any kind, and finally arrived at St. Quentin.
Some one removed the blanket from my face and examined my shoulder-straps. I heard him say "Hauptmann," and after that I seemed to be treated with some consideration.
I did not understand a single word of German, and the repetition of this word puzzled me. It must have been some connection with my rank. I would try it on the next person who came near me and see what happened.
I had not long to wait, for by and by the stretchers were lifted and we were carried into the hospital at St. Quentin. I was placed alongside a large number of others, and the place created a very unpleasant impression of the attention I was likely to receive.
The place seemed like Bedlam. All round me I heard the groans and cries of the wounded. How long would I be left here unattended? HowI longed to have my clothes removed! And what of my wound—how much longer must I go before it was attended to? And what was happening to it all this time?
I heard some voices near me speaking in German. Now was the time I would test that magic word, and see what would happen. Removing the blankets from my face, and lifting my arm to attract attention, I whispered hoarsely:
"Hauptmann!"
Some one stooped down over me, examined my shoulder-strap, and said, "Huhzo!" He then gave an order, and my stretcher was again picked up, and I was carried up-stairs to a room reserved for officers.
That "Open Sesame" served me in good stead on several occasions.
But the hospital at St. Quentin was a horrible place. There was a Frenchman in the ward who was raving mad, and between his yells and shrieks of laughter, the moaning of the wounded, and the fitful awakenings from my own delirium I spent a most unhappy time. I think I must have been there about two days, and on the morning after my arrival I was sensible for a while.
Adjoining the ward and only separated by anopen doorway was the operating-room, where first operations were taking place hurriedly. The scene was something I can never forget. One by one we were being taken in, and the shrieks of pain which followed were too shocking for description. To hear strong men howl with pain is agonising enough; but to hear them shriek, and for those shrieks to fall upon the ears of nerve-broken men awaiting their turn just outside the open door was terrifying, appalling.
As the shrieks subsided into weakened groans the stretcher would come back into the ward, and the next man be moved in; and so we waited in an agony of suspense, horror, and dread as nearer and nearer we came to our turn.
I do not wish to harrow my readers' feelings any more by describing how I felt when my stretcher was at last lifted and I was laid on the operating-table. I could not see the bloodiness of my surroundings, but I murmured to myself, as I had occasion to do on subsequent and similar occasions:
"Thank God I'm blind."
There was a nurse at St. Quentin whose devotion and humanity will be long remembered bythe many British and French wounded officers who have passed through that ward. In my half-dazed condition I seemed to have an idea that she was some sort of angel, whose gentle voice and comforting words were so soothing to the wounded, and inspired us with confidence in our painful conditions and surroundings.
On Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of water, I was removed from St. Quentin and placed in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I was told it was a splendidly appointed train, with every modern appliance.
The journey to Hanover occupied two days and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, as I believe I was unconscious the whole time.
I do remember just before leaving being presented with a haversack from the French Red Cross Society, and it was full of things which were extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haversack still. I carried it wherever I went in Germany, and never allowed it to leave my possession.
On Sunday morning, September 17, the train pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were carried out and left for a time on the platform.
Some girls seemed to be busy giving refreshment to the wounded. A girl came to my stretcher, pulled down the blanket which covered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. I thought she was trying to feed me from some kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, and the coffee ran down my neck.
A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke to me very kindly.
I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if he was an officer.
He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter."
I think I became unconscious again. Rather unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour of the remark would have amused me.