And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
Shakespeare’s“Henry V.”
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;They fell with their faces to the foe.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;They fell with their faces to the foe.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;They fell with their faces to the foe.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
Laurence Binyon’s“For the Fallen.”
When we got the order to retire I found that both my boots were full of blood. When I took them off I found that my feet had swollen and there were two big holes in my heels:Private E. Young.
The officer said, “Baker, our time has come. Be brave, and die like a man. Good-bye.” He shook hands with me. I shall always remember the minutes that followed:A Mechanic of the English Flying Corps.
I saw one of the Bays, a lance-corporal, run towards the enemy with a machine gun on his shoulders. He fired several rounds at them, and escaped without a scratch. He was promoted to the rank of sergeant for that:Pte. Fill, 5th Dragoon Guards.
I saw a handful of Irishmen throw themselves in front of a regiment of cavalry trying to cut off a battery of Horse Artillery. Not one of the poor lads got away alive, but they made the German devils pay in kind, and anyhow the artillery got away:Private A. McGillivray.
There was a man of the Buffs who carried a wounded chum forover a mile under German fire, but if you mentioned recommending that chap for the Cross he’d punch your head, and as he’s a regular devil the men of his regiment say as little as they can about it:A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.
Your son and I had fought side by side, and he missed me. The noble lad came back through fires of hell and carried me to safety. He was wounded, but not dangerously. We are all proud of that boy; he is always in the thick of it. All over the line you could hear him: “Into ’em, lads; the sooner we get through, the sooner we’ll get home”:Gunner Batey, Royal Garrison Artillery.
Captain Brussell, D.S.O., who directed the movement, shouted, “Cheer up, men; you all belong to the Royal Scots. If we go down we are dying for the Old Royals.” These were his last words, for he fell immediately the charge had begun, struck down by two bullets from the Maxim:Corpl. McGlade, Royal Scots.
Lieutenant Geoffrey Lambton, nephew of the Earl of Durham, was in charge of us in the wood, and was directing our fire from a mound. The lieutenant had given orders to fire, had picked up a rifle, and was in the act of firing himself when he was fatally wounded by a German bullet. He knew he was done for, and he gave me his pocketbook, note-book, and sketch-book to bring back to his people:Pte. Roberts, Coldstream Guards.
I saw a fine thing. We went out to take some German prisoners, when the German artillery began to shell us. We got orders to retire, and on the way poor Jack Anderson got hit in the neck. Billy Flaxington, one of our fellows, at once went out in front of a shower of bullets and brought him in. Even our officers cheered. It showed the Germans what Kirkstall Road lads are made of:Rifleman W. Sissons, of Leeds.
I heard of a corporal of the Fusiliers Brigade who held a company of Germans at bay for two hours by the old trick of firing at them from different points, and so making them think they had a crowd to face. He was getting on very well until a party of cavalry outflanked him, as you might say. As they were right on top of himthere was no kidding them about his “strength,” so he skedaddled:A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.
Our artillery were unable to bring down a German aeroplane flying right above us, when suddenly a French aeroplane rose like a shot and hovered above the German machine, which was flying over our trenches from end to end. What really happened I don’t know, but shots having been exchanged between the aeroplanes, the next thing we saw was the German spinning around us as if all control had been lost. It came down with a sickening crash just beyond us:Private D. Schofield.
I saw the brave rescue of a private by young Lieutenant Amos. The man was named Varley, and had been shot in the liver. Although Varley was over 11 stone the young subaltern went alone to his aid, and, under very heavy fire, carried him to safety. The news of the death of Lieutenant Amos in hospital three weeks later was received with great regret by all who saw his self-sacrifice on that occasion:A Private of the 2nd King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
In camp one night a German prisoner told us about a Lancashire Fusilier who had been cut off and refused to surrender to 200 Germans. He lay on the ground and kept firing away until he hadn’t a cartridge left, and as his bayonet was gone, he stood up with folded arms while they shot him down. There was a sackful of bullets in him at least, but he killed twelve and wounded over thirty of his foes before the end came:A Private of the Coldstream Guards.
One of our lads did a daring thing last week. Somehow he got left behind, and when he found his bearings, he was right in the heart of the German lines. He put spurs to his nag, and made a dash to get through their lines. They were after him like a whirlwind, but he rode for half a mile with the whole army shooting at him. Then he found his path barred by a squadron of Uhlans. He bore madly down on them as though he intended to ride right into them, but, just when he was within a few feet of them, he swerved to the left and dashed by with only a flesh wound in the leg:Pte. H. Hill, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards.
I was pulling one of our officers out of the firing line when I gothit. He had been hit four times and he was going mad and jumping up. Well, that was giving our position away, so I held him down till we got the command to retire. Then I pulled him a good way with me, and all the others had got away from the firing line and the Germans were only fifty yards from me when the officer died. I had to leave him then and I crawled along till I came on the road. Then I met a sergeant, who took me to a church which was being used as a hospital:Pte. J. Hayden, King’s Own Royal Lancashire Regiment.
I saw an awful sight: a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. He called me for water, but I had none. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water: then he was as happy as if he was not wounded. I stuck to him although he was heavy, and I was feeling weak and tired. I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I slipped, and we both fell. I then had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. “Thank God!” I said to him, “we are out of that; it’s worse than bullets”:Private G. Kay, at Mons.
Two drivers of the Royal Field Artillery brought a gun out of action with shells bursting around them. They had noticed that the gunners had been all killed, but calmly and heroically walked their horses down to the gun. One driver held the horses under a terrific fire, while the other limbered up, and the gun was brought safely back, neither men nor horses being hit. They had a miraculous escape. As we watched them from the trenches we thought it impossible for them to escape death:Corpl. Bignell, Royal Berks Regiment.
A private of the South Staffords, named Murphy, performed a gallant deed. They were on outpost duty, and were being continually picked off by snipers. One night Murphy got a wound in the arm, and, in broad Irish, he vowed he would find the sniper. Despite the remonstrances of his officers he kept on hunting for him. Two nights later Murphy was missing from his post, but the sniping had stopped. Later on, search being made for him, he was found lying at the foot of a big tree, close beside the body of the sniper, who was pinned to the ground with Murphy’s bayonet. Murphy told the officer that when he located “the blighter” he was high up in the tree. Getting underneath he threatened to shoot, whenthe German dropped his rifle and scrambled down. “Then I gave him a good basting with my fists, and finished off by pinning him down”:Pte. J. Smith, 3rd Coldstream Guards.
There was an English regiment out in front of us who had been getting it pretty hot all the morning, and, towards the evening, we saw a small party of their wounded coming in, among them a young subaltern, just a lad. His coat was off, and he stood bareheaded grasping his revolver in one hand. He had had the other arm blown clean away at the shoulder. Someone had dressed it temporarily for him, but he was anxious to find a doctor, and asked one of our officers where the nearest doctor was. Our officer told him where to find one, but added, “You’re not fit to go alone owing to the blood you’re losing. I shall get some of our men to help,” “Oh, I don’t require help,” he remarked, “and the poor devils have enough to do to carry themselves out of this hell.” With that he went away smiling. Help! He wouldn’t have it at any cost:Pte. A. Russell, 2nd Seaforth Highlanders.
Lieut. Pottinger did one of the pluckiest things that have been done in the war. He and his section were blowing up a bridge under fire. They laid the charge, and the section retired, Lieut. Pottinger and a sapper remaining behind to light the fuse. This they did, but apparently something went wrong with the detonator, and the charge did not explode. The sapper then fired ten rounds with his rifle at the charge without success. Lieut. Pottinger then said, “I’ll make the d—— thing go off,” shook hands with the sapper, and went to the bridge. There he put the muzzle of his revolver to the charge and fired all six cartridges. The charge still did not explode, and they had to leave the bridge still standing, as they were driven back by the Germans. If that charge had gone off the lieutenant would have disappeared, and he knew it as well as I do:A Royal Engineer.
The Scots Greys galloped forward with us hanging on to their stirrups, and it was a sight never to be forgotten. We were simply being dragged by the horses as they flew forward through a perfect cloud of bullets from the enemy’s Maxims. Saddles were being emptied quickly as we closed on the German lines, and tore past their Maxims, which were in the front ranks. We wereon the German gunners before they knew where they were, and many of them went down in their gore, scarcely realizing that we were amongst them. Then the fray commenced in deadly earnest. The Black Watch and the Scots Greys went into it like men possessed. They fought like demons. It was our bayonets against the Germans’ swords. The German swords were no use against us. They went down in hundreds, and still the deadly work of the bayonet continued. The enemy began to waver as the carnage amongst them increased, and they soon broke and fled like rabbits:Pte. W. Morton, 1st Batt. Black Watch.
Three of my comrades were sent out on patrol, when they were fired on by the Germans. One got back to the trenches, though I was told two had returned. One I saw was wounded, and I volunteered to save him. I went out and was heavily fired at, but I made up my mind to get him—and you know I very seldom change that. Well, I persevered and got to one who was past human aid. I had missed the wounded one, who was lying nearer the trenches. I came back to the trench and reported the one dead. I then went out again to the wounded man and, with the help of Corporal Brown, brought him safely back:Pte. Dobson, Coldstream Guards.
My regiment was acting advance guard, and my company was well in advance, when we came to a hill covered with thick brushwood. Some French cavalry were sent out to do a bit of scouting. They came back and reported the hill clear. Well, we continued our march along the road, but, just as we came under the hill, the Germans opened a terrible fire on us. The hill was entrenched from top to bottom, but the trenches were well hidden in the brush. The first line was only about ninety yards from us, and the first volley bowled over a lot of my company. There were also two companies of the Camerons attached to us. There was nothing for it but the bayonet, and before you could say “Jack Robinson” we were in their first line of trenches. They ran like rabbits. Then we got reinforced by the remainder of the regiment, and the hill was taken:A Private of the Black Watch.
I want to let the public know how the Black Watch went through it. Well, it was a terrible bit of work, but our fellows stuck to their ground like men—the men of thebulldog breed the kiddies sing about at school. The Germans were as thick as the “Hielan” heather, and by sheer weight forced us back step by step. But we had our orders, and every man stuck to them, and until the order came not a livin’ man flinched. We stuck there popping off the Germans as fast as we could, and all around us the German shells were bursting. And in the thick of it all we were singing Harry Lauder’s latest. Aye, laddie, it was grand; all around us were the dead and dying, and every now and then the German shells would burst, and as we peppered away at ’em we sang about “Roamin’ in the gloamin’” and “The Lass of Killiecrankie”:A Corporal of the Black Watch.
After the firing had lasted for two and a half hours the order to retire was given and we retired through a wood. Then General Davis came along and said, “Turn about, men—you must save the guns at all costs.” There were only about fifty of us. We made a series of short rushes under a heavy shrapnel fire until we were up to the guns. The Germans were not more than eight hundred yards away, but we were getting very few burst shells, while we could see the Germans going down in scores. Every shot of ours told, as it was impossible to miss the enemy, who had formed from six to ten deep. We could see our artillery shells simply mowing the Germans down. Still they came on. Presently the order rang out to abandon the guns, but gallant young Lieut. Hibbert said, “No, boys; we will never let a German take a British gun!” Then our chaps raised a cheer, and resumed rapid firing. Presently we were reinforced by the South Staffords. The guns’ crews stuck to their task most heroically, and, amid cheering, we rescued the whole of them:Sergt. Meads, Royal Berks.
We occupied an exposed position on the left of the Aisne, and one night we only escaped being wiped out by mere chance, combined with as fine a deed of heroism as I have ever heard of. There was a man of the Manchester Regiment who was lying close to the German lines terribly wounded. He happened to overhear some conversation between German soldiers, and, being familiar with the language, he gathered that they intended to attack the position we held that night. In spite of his wounds he decided to set out to warn us of the danger, and he set out on the weary tramp of over five miles. He was under fire from the moment he got to his feet, but he stumbled along in spite of that, and soon got out of range. Later heran into a patrol of Uhlans, but before they saw him he dropped to earth and shammed being dead. They passed by without a sign, and then he resumed his weary journey. By this time the strain had told on him and his wound began to bleed, marking his path towards our lines with thin red streaks. In the early morning, just half an hour before the time fixed for the German attack, he staggered into one of our advanced posts, and managed to tell his story to the officer in charge before collapsing in a heap. Thanks to the information he gave, we were ready for the Germans when they came, and beat them off; but his anxiety to warn us had cost him his life. The doctors said that the strain had been too much for him, and next day he died:A Corporal of the Northumberland Fusiliers.
We were working in touch with a French corps on our left, and early one morning we were sent ahead to this village, which we had reason to believe was clear of the enemy. On the outskirts we questioned a French lad, but he seemed scared and ran away. We went on through the long narrow street, and just as we were in sight of the end a man dashed out from a farmhouse on the right. Immediately the rifles began to crack in front, and the poor chap fell dead before he reached us. He was one of our men, a private of the ——. We learned that he had been captured the previous day by a party of German cavalry, and had been held a prisoner at the farm, where the Germans were in ambush for us. He guessed their game, and though he knew that if he made the slightest sound they would kill him, he decided to make a dash to warn us of what was in store. He had more than a dozen bullets in him. We buried him next day with military honours. His identification disc and everything else was missing, so that we could only put over his grave the tribute, “He saved others.” There wasn’t a dry eye among us when we laid him to rest in that little village:A Corporal at the Aisne.
In one of our fights it was necessary to give orders to a battalion holding an exposed position to retire. Bugle-calls were no good, and the only thing was for men to risk their lives by rushing across an open space of 400 yards at least under a hellish fire. Volunteers were asked for from the Royal Irish Fusiliers, and, though every man knew that he was taking his life in his hand, the whole lot volunteered. They couldn’t all go, so they tossed for it in files, the manwho couldn’t guess the way the coin came down at least once out of three times being selected. The first was a shock-headed chap who didn’t look as if there was very much in him. Ducking his head in a comic way that would have made you roar, he rushed into that blinding hail of bullets. He cleared the first 100 yards without being hit. It was a miracle how he did it, but in the second lap he was hit. He ran on for a minute or two, but staggered and fell after being hit a second time. Two more men stepped forward and dashed across while the Germans were doing their best to pink them. One picked up the wounded man and started to carry him in to the trenches, while the other ran ahead with the precious dispatch. Just as the wounded man and his mate were within a few yards of safety and we were cheering them for all we knew, there was a perfectly wicked volley from the Germans, and both of them collapsed. We dragged them in, but it was too late. Both were dead. The fourth man kept up his race against death and seemed to bear a charmed life, but in the last lap as you might say he went down like a felled ox. He was seen from the trenches to which the message was being taken, and half a dozen men ran out to his aid, the Germans renewing their fire with greater fierceness. The whole of the little party was shot down, but the wounded Fusilier still continued to crawl to the trenches with his message. Another party came out and carried him in, as well as seeing to the others. Later the battalion holding the advanced position was able to fall back in good order, but it wasn’t the least bit too soon, and had it not been for those brave chaps, who risked their lives to carry that message, there would have been a battalion less to fight our battles that day, as the Germans were working round unknown to the officer in command, and would have cut it off as sure as I’m a soldier:A Corporal of the Gloucester Regiment.
Say not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.For now by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
Say not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.For now by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
Say not the struggle naught availeth,The labour and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.
Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
For now by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light;In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!But westward, look, the land is bright!
For now by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!
A. H. Clough.
Darling,—I am now lying in a forest with my leg shot off, and don’t know when the ambulance will turn up. It’s awful. I hope I shall see you again. Love to baby and all:Jack.
People at home can’t realize what it means to have their country invaded. Inoffensive people are sitting in their homes, when, without the slightest warning, away comes death and destruction in the shape of artillery shells from an enemy that doesn’t know the meaning of the first letter of fairplay:Pte. E. Bush, The Buffs.
A live shell burst and hit one poor fellow in the lower part of the body. I asked him if I could do anything for him, and he said, “Yes; have you got a rifle?” “Yes,” I said. “Well,” he said, “for God’s sake shoot me out of my misery.” I told him I could not do that, so I gave him water:Pte. F. Bruce, Suffolk Regiment.
In our trenches on the Aisne after a hard fight we found one of the Gloucesters with an unfinished letter in his hand. It was written to his wife and little girl. It spoke hopefully of the future, and said, “Tell Annie I will be home in time to make her Christmas tree.” He never got further, for a German shell had laid him out:A Seaforth Highlander.
The looting has been awful; beautiful homes broken up, and articles of clothing, household linen, pictures, and furniture smashed to atoms and trodden under foot. They took away the wines, for on our advance up country the numerous German camps were strewn with bottles, articles of equipment, and other things too numerous to mention. They leave their killed by the side of the roads, and in the streets of villages—anywhere, in fact:Sergt.-Major H. Attree, 18th Hussars.
The horrors of war can only be imagined; yet we seem to get used to them. It seems callous to me, but after the battle we have roll-call. The sergeant calls out the names. Perhaps the first one he calls is missing. Nobody knows where he is. The next one is called, and somebody says, “I saw him shot.” The sergeant puts him down as “shot” or “wounded.” Nobody comments or says anything:Corporal R. W. Crow, Royal Engineers.
I came on a wounded man of the Lancashire Fusiliers one day. He had two ghastly wounds in his breast, and I fancy he was booked through. He was quietly reading a little edition of Ruskin’s “Crown of Wild Olive,” and seemed to be enjoying it immensely. As I chatted with him for a few minutes he told me that this little book had been his companion all through and that when he died he wanted it to be buried with him. His end came next day, and we buried the book with him:A Sergeant of the Fifth Lancers.
After being under the deadliest of shell fire for eight days I was hit, but, thank God, no bones broken. I shall never forget my poor chum. He had his leg broken with the bone sticking out, and also a great gash in the thigh. But the one glorious thing about it is, as soon as we realized we were hit, we joined in prayer to our Father, after which we helped one another to bandage ourselves up. I haven’t seen him since they carried us out of the trenches, but I am sure he is all right:Pte. W. Marshall, 1st Devonshire Regiment.
The shortest will I have ever heard of was made one night by a chap of the Royal Scots. He was bowled over in a rush at the German trenches, and, with what must have been his dying breath,he shouted after his chum, “Jock, ye can hae ma fags.” Later we came on him dead, and Jock got the fags all right in his breast pocket; but I don’t think he would part with them if he wanted a smoke ever so, and none of us would have asked him to do it:A Cameron Highlander.
I suppose Nellie is very anxious over me, but tell her I am going on grand, and am delighted I am living and able to use my rifle. As long as I can account for a German life every time I get the chance, that is all I care about, and every other British soldier is just the same. It is marvellous the pluck of our officers; they would face anything, and where they go we follow them, and would follow them anywhere. We have a lot of our officers killed; and it is a pity, poor fellows, for they are brave men. When we get close to the Germans they run like hell from our rifle fire, and then we get a grand chance at them:Sergt. E. F. Eagar, Royal Irish Regiment.
There was a big, awkward, gawky lad of the Camerons who took a fancy to a Scotch collie that had followed us about a lot, and one day the dog got left behind when we were falling back. The big lad was terribly upset, and went back to look for it. He found it, and was trudging along with it in his arms, making forced marches to overtake us, when he fell in with a party of Uhlans on the prowl. He and his dog fought their best, but they hadn’t a chance, and both were killed:A Private of the Highland Light Infantry.
It is a shame to see the lovely homes that have been deserted, the people trekking along the roads with any belongings they can manage to carry with them or wheel on barrows, and women with little babies in arms flying for their lives, and perhaps an old mother being helped along behind. These sights make lumps come in your throat, and make you think what it would be if a similar thing were to happen at home. When we first came here we went right through into Belgium, and as we were retiring the Germans were setting fire to all villages. It was a common thing to see two or three villages alight at the same time:A British Gunner.
Just as he was going into battle a man of the Staffordshire Regiment received a letter announcing the sudden death of his wife and babydaughter. There was no time for tears or vain regrets, and he had to go into the fight with his heart stricken with that terrible grief. In the fighting he acquitted himself like a hero, and just as we were retiring he received a mortal wound. I offered a word of sympathy, but he would not hear of it. “Never mind,” he said, “I’m booked through; but I have sent a few Germans before; and, anyhow, I am going to see the ones I love”:A Sergeant of the 9th Lancers.
We came on a German who had been pinned down under a gun-carriage that had to be abandoned. He could not extricate himself, and he simply had to lie there with two loathsome vultures waiting to nibble at him when the last spark of life had gone. He was relieved when we found him, for you can imagine it’s not nice to see these awful creatures waiting to make a meal of you. Whenever we see them we kill them, but they are always hovering about the battlefields, and they always follow our men on the march. Some instinct seems to tell them when to expect dead men. They are terribly afraid of the aeroplanes, and when the machines are up vultures clear out of the way:Pte. T. R. Morgan, Royal Field Artillery.
I am a bit down in the mouth over a thing that happened last night. We had a bit of a sing-song and smoker to mark the arrival in camp of a couple of boxes of cigarettes. My best chum, the one I have told you about so often, was called on for a song, and, just as he took his fag out of his mouth to oblige, a shell dropped into us, and he was badly wounded on the side and in the head. “I’m done for, George,” was all he had time to say, and off he went. He was a fine chum. No man ever had better, and we were all cut up about it. He had a wife and four children at home. God only knows what will become of them now:A Sergeant of the 1st Division Staff.
There was a chap of the Berkshires who, like many more of us, had ’listed after a row with his girl. At the crossing of the Aisne he got hit, and he had just breath enough to tell me the name of the girl, and ask me to write to her. “Tell her,” he said, “I’m sorry we had that row, but it was for the best, for if we hadn’t had it I should not have been able to do my bit for my country. It seems awfully hard that I can never see her again to explain things to her, but I’m sure she will think better of me nowthan if I had been one of the stay-at-homes. Good-bye, old chap; there’ll be no more cold nights in the trenches for me, anyhow”:A Private of the Leicestershire Regiment.
I found myself mixed up with a French regiment on the right. I wanted to go forward with them, but the officer in charge shook his head and smiled. “They will spot you in your khaki and put you out in no time,” he said in English; “make your way to the left; you’ll find your fellows on that hill.” I watched the regiment till it disappeared; then I made my way across a field and up a big avenue of trees. The shells were whistling overhead, but there was nothing to be afraid of. Half-way up the avenue there was a German lancer officer lying dead by the side of the road. How he got there was a mystery because we had seen no cavalry. But there he lay, and someone had crossed his hands on his breast and put a little celluloid crucifix in his hands. Over his face was a beautiful little handkerchief—a lady’s—with a lace edging. It was a bit of a mystery because there wasn’t a lady for miles that I knew of:A British Infantryman.
Letters have just arrived. How sad that the men cannot have them. We call the names out, but there is no answer. They perhaps know in heaven. Old England, when she hears about the battle, will be proud of us. The Germans were ten to one, and we outfought them. I have lost nearly all my best chums, and have seen some terrible sights. My pack was blown from my back, my cap was taken away, and a bullet or shell stripped my trousers from my thigh to the knee. Our colonel and nearly all the officers are gone. One chap in my company, only eighteen and a half years, had both legs blown away. The sergeant you shook hands with, ——, has gone:Sergt. Roberts, Loyal Lancashires.
One night we spent in a pretty old village, where the people were very hospitable. They made some of us a bed on a cottage floor, and gave us food. Said good-bye and left about 5A.M.A few hours later we looked back and saw the flames of the place mounting to the sky. Fired by the enemy, was the fate of that village and many more for giving our troops shelter for a night. Have seen thousands of refugees on the roads flying from the enemy, carrying all their worldly possessions on their backs. One sees many sad sights of this nature. Women tramping wearily along, sobbing with terror at the booming of the great guns and the distantglare of blazing homesteads. We have also seen hundreds of German prisoners, mostly looking “fed up.” Tried to have a chat with one the other morning, but owing to our respective knowledge of English and German being limited, conversation was ditto. Have just been told it’s Sunday to-day. Had quite lost count, as all days seem much alike:Corpl. F. W. Street, R.E.
With Tom Caisley on one side and Joe Fair on the other I was hopping along, with the shells bursting all around us. My strength was going, when I turned to Tom and said, “I’m beat, Tom,” but he answered, “Stick it, son.” I shall never forget his words, and I did “stick it,” till he saw two fellows with a stretcher and called them over. I was put on the stretcher and shook hands with Tom and Joe, wishing them good-bye. Then they went back to the firing line, and I was taken to a cave, where I had my leg dressed; the bullet had gone right through the thigh. I had only been in this place about half an hour when a chap called Nicholson was brought in wounded, and I asked him if Tom and Joe were all right. He gave me a shock when he said Joe Fair had been killed while assisting him. I must confess that I cried, for Joe had been chums with Tom and me for years:Private Thomas Elliott.
I met a man belonging to C Company of the Gordons who was bleeding very much. He shouted to me, “For God’s sake take me out of action.” I put him on a stretcher with the help of another bearer. We lifted him up, and just then a shell broke a tree in half close by. The trunk fell right across the man’s head, killing him at once. It was getting dusk and we could not find out where our company was, as they had retired fighting. I walked about the woods very quietly at night with three others and then heard some English voices. We looked ahead and saw a battery of artillery in a lane in front of us. They said they were ambushed between two lines of fire, and shouted, “Come, get a gun, and take pot luck with us.” We started, although twenty-four of the first team’s horses were shot, the middle driver was dead, and the one on the second leading horse was wounded in the head. We all decided to make a dash for it in the morning. We did so over dead horses and men and found our regiment at 3A.M.In the meantime we had got some corn from the fields, but for three days we had nothing to eat and drink butapples, dirty water, and red wine:Bandsman T. Winstanley.
I have had some experiences, but I think the saddest was the digging out of a number of men from a kind of subterranean passage or cave, which had fallen in and buried about thirty of the Camerons. The other night information was brought to the camp that the Cameron Highlanders had met with a disaster, and I was sent off immediately with a party of our chaps to go to their assistance. We were taken to a spot on a hillside, which reminded me of the caves of Cheddar, and which had been shelled. The turf and earth were thrown up in all directions as the result of a bombardment. There were several large and small caves, and one of them had been used as a hiding-place by the Camerons. No doubt this was spotted by the Germans, for they directed their guns on it, and it collapsed. The poor fellows were buried underneath many tons of earth. This happened early in the day, and although several attempts had been made to extricate the men, very little could be done, as the bursting of the shells on the same spot drove off the small rescue parties. I had to leave before the work was completed, but I helped to dig out two dead officers and several men. The position of these caves was well known to the Germans, for they had previously occupied them, and no doubt took a fiendish delight in smashing them up when they saw the Camerons take shelter in them:Sapper G. A. Bell, Royal Engineers.
There was a young chap of the Irish Rifles. He was kneeling beside a wounded man of the Gloucester, keeping off the Germans, who were circling round like carrion birds. He had been hit himself, but was gamely firing at the enemy as fast as his wounded arm would permit. We went to his assistance, but they were both worn-out when we reached them, and, greatly to our regret, we had to leave them to be picked up by the Red Cross people. That was hard; but if you tried to pick up every wounded man you saw you wouldn’t be much use as a fighter, and as we were under urgent orders to take up a position from which to cover the retreat, we had no time for sentiment. They knew that, and they weren’t the men to ask us to risk the safety of the army for them. “Never mind,” the rifleman said, with a faint smile on a ghastly face, “the sisters will pick us up when it’s all over, but if they don’t, sure, then we’ve only got once to die, and it’s the grand fight wehad, anyhow. What more could soldiers ask for?” When we came back again one of the men was there sure enough—stone dead; but his mate had gone, and whether it was the Germans or the Red Cross people that got him I wouldn’t care to say:A Trooper of the Irish Dragoons.
I think the worst part of it all to bear is seeing the refugees; it breaks you up to see people too old to walk being pushed about in wheelbarrows and hand-carts. Let the Germans look out if the French and the Belgians get into Germany, for there will be the devil to pay, I bet. It would be hard to blame them, whatever they do, after what I have seen done to villages here.... The pepper is good stuff; I put some in my tea—it warms you up a treat:Bombardier Yorke, R.H.A.
Said the king to the colonel,“The complaints are eternal,That you Irish give more troubleThan any other corps.”Said the colonel to the king,“This complaint is no new thing,For your foemen, sire, have made itA hundred times before.”
Said the king to the colonel,“The complaints are eternal,That you Irish give more troubleThan any other corps.”Said the colonel to the king,“This complaint is no new thing,For your foemen, sire, have made itA hundred times before.”
Said the king to the colonel,“The complaints are eternal,That you Irish give more troubleThan any other corps.”
Said the king to the colonel,
“The complaints are eternal,
That you Irish give more trouble
Than any other corps.”
Said the colonel to the king,“This complaint is no new thing,For your foemen, sire, have made itA hundred times before.”
Said the colonel to the king,
“This complaint is no new thing,
For your foemen, sire, have made it
A hundred times before.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The French tobacco is terrible, and the matches! Oh! Our fellows have christened them “Asquiths” because you have to “wait and see”:A Private of the R.A.M.C.
One German Uhlan came up to an outpost of the Northampton and said, “Blime, take me a prisoner, I am fed up.” He had worked in London:A Private of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.
A woman said laughingly to me, “If you kill the Kaiser you shall have my daughter.” I replied that I could do that all right, and that she could have a hair of his moustache:Private R. Coombe.
Although the war has its stern, hard, realistic side, there is also a humorous side, especially so with our Tommies. They turn almost everything into a joke; in fact, I think that is the secret of their wonderful sang-froid:Quartermaster-Sergt. Ridewood, 2nd Welsh Regiment.
What a dirty-looking lot we were—holes in our clothes and beards. Every time we passed a clothes-line the fellows took the clothes off it. They had lassies’ nightdresses and chemises, and anything, so long as it made a shirt. What a game it was!A Private of the 5th Lancers.
We are having good sport out here. I have got as good a heart now as I had when I left home. I tell you, there is nothing better than having a few shells and bullets buzzing round you as long as you don’t stop one. We are having some fine feeds out here—ducks, chickens, rabbits, and bags of fruit:Trooper Maddocks, 5th Cavalry Brigade.
The Germans painted on the walls, “We will make the English do the Tango in Paris on September 13.” But we have had a say in that, and I am certain there are a few thousands less Germans now than there were since they wrote that message:Pte. W. Blackburn, 2nd Coldstream Guards.
An officer of the Cheshires, who is a bit of a cricketer, got uncomfortable after being cramped so long in the trenches. He raised his leg in shifting his position, and a bit of a shell hit him in the thigh. As he fell back all he said was, “Out, by George! l.b.w., as the umpire would say. Better luck next innings”:A Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.
We are settling down to the hard grind of active service, and if you saw us now you would think we well deserved our regimental nickname, “The Dirty Shirts.” When you have wielded the pick and shovel for a day or two in a blazing sun you don’t look as though you were going to a tea party or to chapel:Private T. Mulligan.
It is great fun watching the efforts of the troops to make the French people understand what they want. One of our fellows thought he would try for some eggs at a farmhouse. Naturally, they couldn’t understand him, so he opened his mouth, rubbed his stomach, flapped his arms, and cried, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” The eggs came promptly:Bombdr. H. Cressy, Royal Field Artillery.
Pat Ryan, of the Connaught Rangers, thought he ought to do something to celebrate his birthday, which fell on Friday week. Without telling a soul he went out of the trenches in the afternoon, and came back after dusk with two big Germans in tow. How or where he got them nobody knows. The captain asked how he managed to catch the two. “Sure and I surrounded them, sorr,” was the answer:A Gunner of the Royal Artillery.
We had six bridges to blow up. The centre bridge was to go up first, and we were to get over quickly after we had laid the charge. While we were waiting—there were ten of us—we saw a chap from the West Kents coming over, and we told him to jump for his life. The fuse was actually burning at the time, and I guess he broke all the records for jumping. A party of the King’s Own went into one battle shouting out, “Early doors this way. Early doors, ninepence!”:Sapper Mugridge.
I was wounded in rather a curious manner. Being caterer to the officers’ mess, I was preparing the dinner, plucking a duck in the backyard, when a shell burst, and I was hit on the shoulder and head. I had laid the tables for dinner before, and to my surprise when I was expecting the return of officers, I was confronted by a party of Germans, who sat down and ate a hearty meal, while I managed to escape. Whether they finished the plucking and cooking of the duck, I thought it advisable not to return and see:Sergt. Hanks, 4th Middlesex Regiment.
For two whole days the rain came down on us in bucketfuls. It was like having the sea bottom turned upwards and the contents poured over us. At one point tents were floating around like yachts on the lake at the Welsh Harp. Those who had been foolish enough to get on the wrong side of their clothes the night before had the devil’s own job to find them in the morning. Swimming after your things when you wake up isn’t an aid to quick dressing:A Private of the Grenadiers.
A wounded soldier I picked up the other day told me an amusing tale, although he was severely hurt. His regiment was capturing some Germans, and they were being disarmed, when this chap, in asking a German for his rifle, was bayoneted twice by the German and fell down unconscious. When he came round he said to his pals, “Where is the blighter?” “Never mind, Mick, don’t worry,” replied his pals; “we have just buried him”:Sergt. Hughes, Army Medical Corps.
There was a chap of the Grenadier Guards who was always mighty particular about his appearance, and persisted in wearing a tie all the time, whereas most of us reduce our needs to the simplest possible. One day, under heavy rifle fire, he was seen to be in a frightful fluster.“Are you hit?” he was asked. “No,” he said. “What is it, then?” “This —— tie is not straight,” he replied, and proceeded to adjust it under fire:Corpl. C. Hamer, Coldstream Guards.
One night when we were toiling along like to drop with fatigue, we ran right into a big party of horsemen posted near a wood. We thought they were Germans, for we could not make out the colour of the uniforms or anything else, until we heard someone sing out, “Where the hell do you think you’re going to?” Then we knew they were friends, and I don’t think I was ever so glad to hear a real good English swear:A Driver of the Royal Artillery.
Our Allies were greatly “taken” with the Highlanders, and many of them expressed surprise at the kindly behaviour and hearty manner of the Scotsmen. Apparently they thought the “kilties” were of a rather barbaric nature. Two Highlanders were billeted with an old French lady. Her strange lodgers gave the landlady no end of entertainment. They insisted on washing the dishes and doing all the housework, and when finished with these duties went the length of delving the garden:Private D. Goldie.
In camp one night one of the German prisoners was chock-full of peace-at-any-price cant, and talked a lot about all men being brothers. This didn’t please Terry Monahan, an Irish private of the Liverpool Regiment, and, in a towering rage, he turned on the German: “You dirty, church-going, altar-defiling, priest-murdering German devil,” he cried, “ye’re no brother of mine, and by the holy saints if ye’ll only step outside for wan minit it’s me will knock all the nonsense out of yer ugly head”:A Sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment.
There were two lads of our regiment who were both hit, and there was only one stretcher for them. Each had his views about which had the most need of it first. The big one got ragged with the other’s refusal, so raising himself with his unwounded arm, he cried, “You go the noo, Jock, an’ if you’re no slippy about it, you’ll gaur me gae ye something ye’ll remember when I’m a’ richt again.” Jock didn’t wait any longer after that:A Private of the Highland Light Infantry.
During the advance we saw chalked notices written by Germans, such as “Wilhelm, Emperor ofEurope.” Then underneath you would see a British Tommy had written, “I don’t think.” One curious incident was the sight of a Highlander who had taken pity on a woman refugee who was carrying two babies. He took one up in each arm, and carried them along whilst the woman walked by his side carrying his rifle. I could not see what Highland regiment he belonged to because there was hardly a man who had a badge:Corpl. W. L. Pook, Royal Engineers.
An infantry chap found a table and, scoring lines on it with his bayonet, joined in a game of “shove-ha’penny” with four other Tommies. The sequel came later, as sequels will. When the party managed to reassemble for another game a shell had smashed the table to smithereens. “My luck’s out wi’ the infernal shove-ha’penny,” said the infantry chap. “I’m blowed if I’ll play any more.” Then he explained that just before the war he was playing for pots of beer in a public-house when the police raided the place. “Now it’s the Germans,” he added bitterly:A Private of the Army Medical Corps.
You hear some quaint remarks under heavy artillery fire. One day everything was quiet for a bit except for their shells, and one fellow shouted, “Fall in here for your pay, ‘A’ Company,” which caused men and officers to laugh aloud. When once we get under fire we take very little notice of it, for it seems to come natural to us. All we look for is something to shoot at, taking no notice of what our comrades are doing on either side. When ammunition is gone we shout, “Some more souvenirs for the Huns”:Pte. Homewood, Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.
A funny thing happened about a week ago. The scout officer of our regiment went out reconnoitring one night and rather lost his bearings. As he thought he was on his way back he bumped up against a trench which he took for his own, and started to walk along it till he came to someone, obviously an officer, walking up and down. “Hullo! Good evening,” he said; when the other officer, jumping back, said, “Mein Gott, the English!” and before he had got over his surprise the scout officer jumped out of the trench and got away without being hit:A British Scout.
There’s a corporal of a regiment that I won’t name who was a ticket-collector on the railway before the war, and when he was called back to the colours he wasn’t able to forget his old trade. One day he was in charge of a patrol that surprised a party of Germans in a wood, and, instead of a usual call to surrender, he sang out, “Tickets, please!” The Germans seemed to understand what he was driving at, for they surrendered at once, but that chap will never hear the end of the story, for when everything else ceases to amuse in the trenches, you have only to shout out, “Tickets, please!” to set everybody in fits:A Gunner of the Royal Artillery.
We were about as hungry as men could be when we came on a party of Uhlans just about to sit down to a nice dinner which had been prepared for them at a big house. They looked as if they had had too much of a good time lately and wanted thinning down; so we took them prisoners, and let them watch us enjoying their dinner. They didn’t like it at all, and one of them muttered something about an English pig. The baby of the troop asked him to come outside to settle it with fists, but he wasn’t having it. After the best dinner I’ve had in my life we went round to where the Uhlans had commandeered the supplies and offered to pay, but the people were so pleased that we had got the food instead of the Germans that they wouldn’t hear of payment:Trooper Dale, Royal Dragoons.
Have you ever tried cooking a dinner under shell fire? It’s about as exciting as anything you could have in this world. Yesterday we were in the firing line, and as there were no prospects of relief, we had to make a spit and roast some fowls we had been given by the villagers. Just when they were doing nicely, and we were going around to turn them, the Germans found the range, and shells began to drop all around. We had to lie low, and when there was a lull one of us would rush out and turn the nearest bird, and then run back again under cover. We got them cooked all right, but two of our chaps were killed outright and four injured. That’s a big bill to pay for a dinner; but soldiers are like beggars, they can’t be choosers. Out here is no place for the faint-hearts, and we want only real men, who are afraid of nothing:Pte. T. Bayley, 5th Irish Lancers.
Our men had just had their papers from home, and have noted, among other things, that “Business as Usual” is the motto of patriotic shopkeepers. In hard fighting theWiltshires, holding an exposed position, ran out of ammunition, and had to suspend firing until a party brought fresh supplies across the open under a heavy fire. Then the wag of the regiment, a Cockney, produced a biscuit tin with “Business as Usual” crudely printed on it, and set it up before the trenches as a hint to the Germans that the fight could now be resumed on more equal terms. Finally the tin had to be taken in because it was proving such a good target for the German riflemen, but the joker was struck twice in rescuing it:A Private of the Wiltshire Regiment.
We’re just keeping at it in the same old slogging style that always brings us out on top. There’s one chap in our company has got a ripping cure for neuralgia, but he isn’t going to take out a patent, because it’s too risky, and might kill the patient. Good luck’s one of the ingredients, and you can’t always be sure of that. He was lying in the trenches the other day nearly mad with pain in his face, when a German shell burst close by. He wasn’t hit, but the explosion knocked him senseless for a bit. “Me neuralgia’s gone,” says he, when he came round. “And so’s six of your mates,” says we. “Oh, crikey!” says he. His name’s Palmer, and that’s why we call the German shells now “Palmer’s Neuralgia Cure”:Pte. H. Thomson, 1st Gordon Highlanders.
The German officer rushed off to Tim Flanagan, the biggest caution in the whole regiment, and called on him to surrender the file of men under his orders. “Is it me your honour’s after talking to in that way?” says Tim in that bold way of his. “Sure, now, it’s yourself that ought to be surrendering, and if you’re not off this very minute, you ill-mannered German omadhaun, it’s me will be after giving you as much cold steel as’ll do you between this and the kingdom of heaven.” Then the German officer gave the word to his men, and what happened after that I can’t tell to you, for it was just then I got a bullet between my ribs; but I can tell you that neither Tim nor any of his men surrendered:A Private of the Connaught Rangers.
A barber would do a roaring trade if he came here, no one having shaved for weeks. Consequently, beards vary according to the age of the individual and the length of time he has not shaved. Mine, for instance, is something to gaze on and remember. They are not by any means what a writer in a lady’s novelette would describe as “a perfect dream.” Theyare scattered over my chivvy-chase in anything but order, nineteen on one side, fifteen on the other, and thirty-five on the chin, intermixed with a small smattering of down and dirt. Dirt, did I say? That doesn’t describe it. Water is at a discount, except for drinking: soap something to read about, and you wonder when you last used it, and when you will use it again. I can safely say, “Three weeks ago I used your soap; since then I have used no other.” And that’s not spinning you a yarn:Sergt. Diggins, Leicestershire Regiment.
About four thousand Germans, backed up by heavy artillery play, tried to cross the river. There were only 300 Connaught Rangers all told who could be spared to keep them from fixing pontoons. Down to the river-bank they came, firing for all they were worth. The Irishmen were entrenched, and shouted across the river such greeting as “Hallo, old tin hat! When are you coming over?” and as soon as the Irishmen caught sight of the great boots of the Germans, Hibernian humour was irrepressible. The Rangers shouted, “We see you; it’s no good hiding there. We can see your ears sticking out!” Then the Rangers settled down to enjoy themselves, but a little later some more German infantry, which had crossed the river to another point, attempted to outflank them. It was terribly hard work, but the way the Irish stuck it would have taken your breath away:A Nottingham Artilleryman.
Mick Clancy is that droll with his larking and bamboozling the Germans that he makes us nearly split our sides laughing at him and his ways. Yesterday he got a stick and put a cap on it so that it peeped above the trenches just like a man, and then the Germans kept shooting away at it until they must have used up tons of ammunition, and there was us all the time laughing at them. Tommy McQuiston, the big sergeant from the Black North, does nothing else morning, noon, and night but talk about Ned Carson and what he and his volunteers will do when they come out to fight the Germans. He has to put up with a lot of banter and back chat from us on the quiet in the sergeants’ mess, but, sure, though he’s mad Orange, he knows as well as anyone that we think no less of him for that. To get his dander up we tell him he’s going to be the door porter in the Dublin Parliament when the war’s over; but he never begrudges us our bit of diversion and devilment, and says more like he’ll end his days as a warder in a convict prison in charge of us:Sergeant T. Cahill.