Captain Picton-Warlow came up and whispered the order to retire. We had lain for many hours in front of our trench with bayonets fixed, expecting an attack at any moment, finding alarm in every shadow and fear in the rustling of night breezes.
There was safety for a time on the main road, and relief in the companionable formation of fours from the isolation and responsibility of trenches.
During the few moments' halt before marching down the road we heard how C Company had suffered heavy casualties. Major Simpson—reported mortally wounded. Lieut. Richmond—killed.
A few hundred yards down the road a machine-gun flashed red in the darkness; just before reaching it we turned down a side road to the right and joined on to the rest of the battalion. Here, by theroadside, close up against a grassy bank, a number of men were resting, some huddled up, others lying quite still. Almost at once the battalion moved on again, leaving the kilted figures by the roadside.
Less than an hour after leaving the main road we halted on a steep hillside meadow. The order was given to lie down, and for the two or three hours of the remaining night the companies slept on the field in column of fours.
The sloping hillside where we had spent the night breaks at its crest and drops steeply down to the village of Nouvelle, and the rich pasture-land with tall poplar-trees in ordered array. Beyond the ground rises suddenly, with patches of cultivation sloping up to the skyline in gentle undulations. Twenty yards below the crest of the hill, three hundred yards from a small plantation, two field-guns lay abandoned in the open. D Company, posted two hundred yards from the village, were scraping into some sort of cover by the roadside, when a well-timed shell burst right between the two guns, followed by half a dozen more along the ridge of the hill. The enemy was ranging the village, and soon two shells burst among the poplar-trees close to our "trenches," now six inches deep into the hard chalk rock.
We left the village just in time. Marching through the empty street between the shutteredhouses I caught a glimpse of the two abandoned field-guns, and of a team of horses galloping along the ridge under the blazing shells. The guns were saved, but I never heard if the two gallant riders obtained recognition of their gallant deed.
For several miles our road ran alongside the railway and through open country. Pleasant in the cool morning air, and peaceful until about 9A.M., when the enemy began to shell the road from the wooded hills on our right flank. The battalion then crossed the railway, and two companies entrenched across a wide stretch of open pasture, facing the direction in which we had been marching, protected from the right to some extent by the railway embankment.
The enemy occupied a position among slag-heaps and factory chimneys about 4000 yards to our front, and as our own guns were only 200 yards behind, the noise of the artillery duel was prodigious. On this occasion the heavy guns from Maubeuge did very useful work. The big shells could actually be seen sailing along like monster torpedoes, and at each explosion among the slag-heaps an enormous cloud of dust rose into the air.
Our trenches possessed few of the desiderata carefully laid down in the Field Service pocket-book. The parapet was far from bullet-proof, the bright yellow clay against the green must have been visible for more than a mile, and the averagedepth of the trench was certainly not more than a foot. Shells were bursting here and there, sometimes far in front, now far behind, along the railway line and only occasionally over the trench, for the Huns had not yet succeeded in locating our battery. Probably they were somewhat disturbed by the "Jack Johnsons" from Maubeuge. At eleven o'clock our guns retired and we followed suit, each platoon retiring independently. While No. 13 re-formed along a high wall surrounding the woods and garden of a small chateau about a quarter of a mile behind the trench, we had a narrow escape from disaster, as a shell landed just beyond the wall, killing two men and some horses.
We marched to Bavai without further incident, entering the town soon after dark. Here was all the confusion of retreat. Heavy motor-waggons, some French transport, staff officers' cars with blinding headlights, and vehicles of every description obstructed our progress through the town. I remember seeing a London taxi, one of the W.G.'s, loaded with ammunition-boxes.
A mile outside the town we turned into an orchard and bivouacked for the night, first dining on strong tea and a ration biscuit.
There was vigour and cheerfulness in the warm sunrise, and the battalion quickened its step and recovered its usual cheery spirit as we left thewoods and entered the open country, marching down a narrow macadamised road, avoiding the horrors of the paved Route National. Later on in the morning, one of the first duels between a British and a German aeroplane took place right over the road. The Taube, at about 4000 feet, was then following our march, having not yet observed, as we had, 7000 to 8000 feet up among the clouds, a tiny speck, gradually growing bigger. Then the Taube took alarm and turned at full speed for the German lines. The speck, now seen to be a British aeroplane, dropped straight down to within a few hundred feet of the German machine, which was circling and dodging at various angles, striving in vain to escape. A puff of smoke from the British machine sent the enemy crashing to the ground.
Along the dusty road, marching in the hot sun with no knowledge of our destination or reason for such incessant toil, halting for short minutes, enough to ease the pack and rest the rifle and then on again, until the alternate marching and halting becomes the whole occupation not only of the body but of the mind—the eye finds no charm in pleasant countryside, and the mind gathers few pictures; the endless road, the choking dust, the unvaried pace in the hot sun.
On again through paved country towns where the hard stones are hot to weary feet, down to peaceful villages in fresh green valleys and up thelong steep slope on the far side and again on, now across open country, now through the shade of green woods. Here by the village pond a pedestrian might well sit a while and smoke his pipe, watching the children paddle in the brown water under the shade of ancient trees. Often a glimpse through open doors showed cool tiled kitchens with peasants at the midday meal. Many shops in the village street were closed, with the reason therefor chalked across the shutters, "Fermé pour cause de Mobilisation." At the Mairie, and sometimes at street corners, large yellow posters, still fresh and clean, called reservists to arms in the name of La République.
We found many such towns and villages, with groups of men and women outside the numerous estaminets, offering bottles of beer and wine, or cigarettes; others with large buckets of wine and water. Glasses of wine and water were quickly seized, emptied in a few steps, handed back to some spectator farther down the line, and passed back again to the wine buckets.
There had been some thunder early in the afternoon, and overhead the storm-clouds were lowering.
Another long weary climb along the straight dusty road to reach a large open plateau, where an advance-guard of the 4th Division was entrenching, for during all that day of our long march the4th Division was detraining, and part of this force took up a position north of Solesmes.
Large drops of rain were falling as we reached the crest of the hill, and soon a smart shower cleaned the road of dust, giving a new coolness to the air and a new vigour to the weary column.
After the long lonely road it was heartening to see the British troops, a mere handful of men, making ready against the vast armies of Germany, whose advance-guard were now hard on our heels.
That afternoon and all that night the 4th Division, newly landed from England, fighting odds of at least ten to one, held off the German advance, and then rejoined the line of battle in the hours between midnight and dawn.
Many months later a prisoner at Würzburg, an officer of the King's Own (4th Division), told me a story of that night's battle. When leaving the village of Bethancourt, fighting every foot along the village street in the darkness of the night, with the Germans pouring in at the far side of the village, Lt. Irvine and Sergeant —— entered a house where one of their men had been carried mortally wounded. They went to an upstairs room where the dying soldier had been carried. Irvine was at the foot of the stairs and Sergeant —— still busied with the wounded soldier, when a violent knocking was heard at the street door. Just as the door burst open and the Germans were pouring in andup the stairs, the Sergeant came unarmed out on to the landing. Sergeant —— was a big powerful man, who had held a heavy-weight boxing championship. Without a moment's hesitation he picked up a big sofa which happened to be close beside him on the landing and crashed it down on the head of the nearest German, breaking his neck and throwing those behind him into a confused mass at the foot of the stairs. Irvine emptied his revolver into the struggling mass, the Sergeant dropped over the banisters, and both escaped unharmed through the back of the house. Sergeant —— was killed in the trenches next morning.
Now that the 4th Division lay between ourselves and the enemy, a halt was made on the slope of a long straight hill, and the cooks began to serve out dinner. It was half-past five. The rain poured heavily. Major Duff and I sat by the roadside comparing notes and searching for a solution of our continued retreat. We knew nothing then of von Kluck's attempt to outflank the French army.
For the first time since we had left Bavai a motor-car came down the road, making in the direction of the 4th Division, and going dead slow, as the tired men lying on both sides of the road left little enough space in the centre. The driver stopped and shared our wet seat on the bank. It was a strange meeting for the three of us. Now Duff and I sought information from this driverfriend of ours, a distinguished member of the House of Commons, acting as Intelligence Officer, and this was the answer to our inquiry: "We are drawing the Germans on!"
Three or four shabby cottages and a whitewashed estaminet stand by the roadside on top of the hill, overlooking the valley of the Sambre.
A few miles farther on, where a road branches off from the main road to Cambrai, and curls down the face of a steep hillside, Solesmes, hidden in the valley, shows the top of a church spire. The householders of Solesmes were putting up their shutters as we passed through the town, and less than an hour later shells were bursting over the pleasant valley.
Not many miles away to the left lies Landrecies, which R. L. Stevenson refers to, in 'An Inland Voyage,' as "a point in the great warfaring system of Europe which might on some future day be ranged about with cannon, smoke, and thunder." That evening the prophecy was fulfilled.
Caudry was reached at dusk, and here we heard the welcome news that our billets were close at hand. For two more miles along a narrow road, through the soaking rain, the battalion dragged slowly along. During the long twenty-five miles from Bavai to Caudry, the longest day of the retreat, very few men had fallen out; though all were weary through want of food and sleep, andmany feet were blistered and bleeding, every man had kept his pack and greatcoat. The column slept that night crowded under the humble roofs of Audencourt.
In the chill light of dawn trenches were being dug outside the village. The line to be held by the battalion extended as far as Caudry, and the position of No. 13 platoon was about half-way between Audencourt and Caudry, close to a small square-shaped plantation. The rear of my platoon had just cleared the wood when a shell burst overhead, and we had the unpleasant experience of digging trenches under fire.
When at last we were under cover the shelling ceased, having caused no casualties at our end of the line, although some damage had been done up among the leading platoon, now entrenched about 500 yards to our left, their left resting on Caudry.
From information received long afterwards, the explanation of this early morning attack is as follows: German scouts had, on the previous evening, already located our position in the village of Audencourt, and a battery, placed behind Petit Caudry either during the night or very early in the morning, had ranged the little square-shaped wood from the map, and as soon as their observation man, who was probably in the churchtower at Bethancourt, saw No. 13 platoon marching past the wood, he signalled to the guns to open fire. (These guns were almost at once driven away by the troops occupying the village of Caudry.)
The ground in front of our trenches slopes gently down to the Route Nationale Caudry—Le Cateau, which at this point runs on an embankment and is lined with fine old poplar-trees. This road was our first-range mark—350 yards.
Beyond the road the ground rises at a fairly steep slope to the village of Bethancourt.
At the edge of the village, on the ridge of the hill, the gate-post of a small paddock was our second-range mark—900 yards. Between the Route Nationale and the village the land is open pasture, so that no accurate ranges could be taken between 400 and 900 yards. The ridge of the hill runs at a slightly decreasing slope down to a small wood; on the right of this is a stubble field, and to the right again, on the far ridge of the hill, are beetroot fields through which a telephone wire runs, the range being 1200 yards. Caudry was on our left, with the houses of Petit Caudry just visible on our left front; on our right the village of Audencourt, with two platoons entrenched strongly. Behind lay open country, stretching back about 400 to 500 yards to the road between Caudry and Audencourt; againbeyond that for at least half a mile open country interspersed with small thickets.
For nearly half an hour after the shelling ceased the countryside resumed its usual aspect. First the church tower of Bethancourt, then house by house, the village itself came into the full light of the rising sun, whose rays soon reached our newly dug trench to cheer us with their summer warmth. Captain Lumsden came along to supervise the clearing of a field of fire between our end of the line and the Route Nationale.
Our trench was dug in a stubble field where the corn had just been stooked, and it was now our business to push all the stooks over. This gave occasion for a great display of energy and excitement. When the stooks had been laid low we made a very poor attempt to disguise the newly thrown-up earth by covering the top of the trenches with straw, which only seemed to make our position more conspicuous than ever. The trench was lined with straw, and we cut seats and made various little improvements. Then our guns began to speak.
At the corner of the village of Bethancourt there stands (or stood that morning) a farmhouse. In the adjacent paddock two cows were peacefully browsing. The first shell burst right above them. They plunged and kicked and galloped about, but soon settled down again to graze. Several shellshit the church tower; the fifth or sixth set fire to a large square white house near the church on the right. Our gunners made good practice at the two cows, and shell after shell burst over or near their paddock, from which they finally escaped to gallop clumsily along the ridge of the hill and disappear into the wood, no doubt carrying bits of shrapnel along with them. For at least half an hour our guns had everything to themselves, and it must have been a most unpleasant half-hour for those who were on "the other side of the hill."
About 9A.M.the German artillery got to work. Many attempts have been made to describe the situation in a trench while an artillery duel is in progress, but really no words can give any idea of the intensity of confusion. On both our flanks machine-guns maintained a steady staccato. All other sounds were sudden and nerve-straining, especially the sudden rush of the large German shell followed by the roar of its explosion in the village of Audencourt, where dust anddébrisrise like smoke from a volcano, showing the enemy that the target has been hit.
The Huns evidently suspected that the little wood on our right rear is being used to conceal artillery, for they dropped dozens of shells into it, doing no harm to anything but the trees. The noise of the shells bursting among the branchesjust behind us was most disturbing. Sometimes these shells pitched short of the wood; they were then less noisy, but far more unpleasant in other respects. Just when the uproar was at its highest a scared face appeared over the back of my trench and stated that four ammunition boxes lay at the far corner of the wood at our disposal, please. The owner of the face, having delivered his message, rose up and returned whence he had come, doubled up yet running at great speed.
By about ten o'clock it became obvious that the artillery duel was not to be decided in our favour, and, moreover, that it would not as at Mons end in a draw. I counted the number of shells going south and north; the proportion was about 7 to 1.
Gradually the number of our own shells grew less and less as our batteries were silenced or forced, or perhaps ordered, to retire. As this went on it became evident—far more evident than at Mons—that we were up against overwhelming odds. The rush of shells reached a maximum, and then for a space there was silence. Pipes and cigarettes, up to now smoked only by the fearless ones, for a short time appeared on every side, and conversational remarks were shouted from one trench to another. The respite was brief, and its explanation at once obvious when a Taube came sailing above our line considerablyout of rifle-shot. It did not need great skill or experience in war to know what might now be expected. The aeroplane came over early in the afternoon, and less than half an hour after it disappeared the German artillery reopened fire.
This time the wood and the village were spared, for the Huns had silenced our guns and obtained exact knowledge of the position of our trenches, over which their shells now began to explode.
The German infantry first came into view crossing the beetroot fields on top of the hill on our right front, where the telegraph poles acted as the 1200 yards' mark. Through these fields they advanced in close formation until disturbed by the attentions of a machine-gun either of ours or of the Royal Scots (who were holding the other side of the village of Audencourt). It was not long before we had a chance of getting rid of some ammunition. German troops, debouching from the little wood where the cows had taken refuge earlier in the day, now advanced across the stubble field on top of the hill, moving to their left flank across our front. My glasses showed they were extended to not more than two paces, keeping a very bad line, evidently very weary and marching in the hot sun with manifest disgust.
The command, "Five rounds rapid at the stubble field 900 yards," produced a cinematographic picture in my field-glasses. The Germans hoppedinto cover like rabbits. Some threw themselves flat behind the corn stooks, and when the firing ceased got up and bolted back to the wood. Two or three who had also appeared to fling themselves down, remained motionless.
The enemy, having discovered that we could be dangerous even at 900 yards, then successfully crossed the stubble field in two short rushes without losing a man, and reinforced their men who were advancing through the beetroot fields on our right.
Great numbers of troops now began to appear on the ridge between Bethancourt and the little wood. They advanced in three or four lines of sections of ten to fifteen men extended to two paces. Their line of advance was direct on the village of Audencourt and on the low plateau on our right, so that we were able to pour upon them an enfilade fire. They were advancing in short rushes across pasture-land which provided no cover whatever, and they offered a clearly visible target even when lying down. Although our men were nearly all first-class shots, they did not often hit the target. This was owing to the unpleasant fact that the German gunners kept up a steady stream of shrapnel, which burst just in front of our trenches and broke over the top like a wave. Shooting at the advancing enemy had to be timed by the bursting shell.
We adopted the plan of firing two rounds and then ducking down at intervals, which were determined as far as could be arranged for by the arrival of the shell. But the shooting of the battalion was good enough to delay the enemy's advance. From the 900-yard mark they took more than an hour to reach their first objective, which was the Route Nationale, 400 yards from our nearest trench. Here they were able to concentrate in great numbers, as the road runs along an embankment behind which nothing but artillery could reach them. This was the situation on our front at about three o'clock in the afternoon. I happened to look down the line and saw Captain Lumsden looking rather anxiously to the rear. I then saw that a number of our people were retiring. There was not much time to think about what this might mean as the enemy were beginning to cross the road; we had fixed bayonets, and I thought we would have little chance against the large number of Germans who had concentrated behind the embankment. For a long time, for nearly an hour, the British guns had been silent, but they had not all retired. With a white star-shaped flash two shells burst right over the road behind which the Germans were massed. Those two shells must have knocked out forty or fifty men. The enemy fled right back up the hill up to the 900-yard mark, followed by rapid fire and loud cheering from all along the line.
The Germans were now re-forming on the hillside, and a machine-gun hidden in the village of Bethancourt began to play up and down our trench.
The bullets began to spray too close to my left ear, and laying my glasses on the parapet I was about to sit down for a few minutes' rest, and indeed had got half-way to the sitting position, when the machine-gun found its target.
Recollections of what passed through my mind at that moment is very clear. I knew instantly what had happened. The blow might have come from a sledge-hammer, except that it seemed to carry with it an impression of speed. I saw for one instant in my mind's eye the battlefield at which I had been gazing through my glasses the whole day. Then the vision was hidden by a scarlet circle, and a voice said, "Mr H. has got it." Through the red mist of the scarlet circle I looked at my watch (the movement to do so had begun in my mind before I was hit); it was spattered with blood; the hands showed five minutes to four. The voice which had spoken before said, "Mr H. is killed."
Before losing consciousness, and almost at the same time as the bullet struck, the questioning thought was present in my mind as vividly as if spoken, "Is this the end?" and present also was the answer, "Not yet."
My knowledge of subsequent events is based partly on information obtained from Private, now Sergeant, R. Sinclair, who was next me in the trench, and at once bandaged up my head with his emergency field-dressing. It was still day when I came back to life. My first consciousness was of intolerable cramp in the legs. When Sinclair saw that I was breathing, he laid me down on the straw at the bottom of the trench and tried to give me a drink out of my water-bottle. I was unable to move any part of my body except the left hand, with which I patted the right-hand pocket of my coat, where I had carried, since leaving Plymouth, a flask of old brandy. Red Cross books say that brandy is the worst thing to give for head wounds; but Sinclair poured the whole contents down my throat, and I believe the stimulant saved my life. I have been told that while I was unconscious Captain Lumsden came down the line to see what could be done for me. After drinking the contents of my flask, I remember sending him up a message to say I was feeling much better; and the answer came back, "Captain Lumsden says he is very glad indeed you are feeling better." Sinclair dug in under the parapet and made the trench more comfortable for me to lie in; shells were bursting overhead,and several times I was conscious that he was covering my face with his hand to protect me from the flying shrapnel. During the rest of the afternoon I had alternate periods of consciousness. I sent up another message asking how things were going, and the answer came back, "Captain Lumsden is killed."
When I next regained consciousness Sinclair told me that the enemy had again reached the Route Nationale. "But don't you worry, sir," he said, "we'll stick it all right; they won't come any farther."
Just after midnight the order came to retire.
Sinclair and the other occupants of the trench lifted me out, this operation coinciding with a fusillade from the enemy, who from their position on the road were firing volleys into the night—a great waste of ammunition. Still, the bullets must have been close overhead, for the men put me back into the trench, jumped in after me, and waited till all was quiet.
The second attempt to get me out was more successful. I was laid on to a greatcoat and lifted up by six men. It is probably not easy to carry along such a burden in the dark, and they made a very bad job of it. Some one suggested that a substitute for a stretcher could be made with three rifles, and the suggestion was at once adopted withmost painful results. I still remember the agony caused by the weight of my body pressing down on my neck and the small of the back, while my head, just clearing the ground, trailed among the wet beetroot leaves. The distance to the little wood was not great, but to me the journey seemed to take hours.
As the men struggled along with their awkward burden, shadowy forms of the retiring company passed close by in the pitch darkness of the night. "Lend a hand here, some of you chaps," said Sinclair; "here's a wounded officer. Come on, Ginger." Ginger, a big stout fellow, volunteered to carry me on his back, and asked me if I could hold on. He got me on to his back, and I held on with my left arm round his neck; but we did not go for more than a hundred yards or so—the dead-weight was too much for his strength—when the party came to a halt.
During the whole of that night I was only intermittently conscious of what was going on around me. The only men I remember speaking to after I had been laid down are the Regimental Sergeant-Major and Lieutenant Houldsworth. The Regimental Sergeant-Major laid his mackintosh on the ground for me to lie on. To Houldsworth I said what a fine thing it wasthe men carrying me out of the trench; and he replied, "It is nothing at all, but very natural," or words to that effect.
My one fear at this time was to be left behind and taken prisoner, and the one hope, a very forlorn one, was that the battalion stretcher-bearers would be able to carry me away. But I heard some one in the dark say that there were no stretchers, and that orders had come to retire and leave all wounded.
There was shuffling about of men and whispered orders, then the not very distant tramp of marching along the road, a sound which grew fainter and fainter, till all in the night was silent: the battalion had gone.
After an indeterminate time—perhaps half an hour, perhaps an hour—I opened my eyes. I was not alone. Two kilted forms, indistinct and vaguely familiar, were seated on the ground close beside my head.
"Who are you?" I said, "and what are you doing here?"
"Macartney and Sinclair," replied the voice.
Macartney was the soldier who had acted as servant for me since leaving Plymouth, but the name of Sinclair was not familiar. "Who is Sinclair?" I asked; and I remember the words of his reply: "The soldier, sir, who looked after you in the trench."
Each effort of speech and thought resulted in a short period of unconsciousness.
When I next recovered there was the sound on the road of marching men. Sinclair went off to find out who they were, and ask (vain and foolish hope it now seems) if they had stretchers or an ambulance!
He came back to say that two companies of the Royal Scots were marching down the road; they had no stretcher-bearers; the Major in command of the party, when he heard that Sinclair and Macartney remained behind, ordered them to rejoin their battalion. This the two soldiers at first refused to do, and only left on receiving a direct order from me. Sinclair went off first. Macartney stopped behind a moment to speak. "Have you any last message to send back to your family?" was what he said. But to this question I distinctly remember answering "No"; and also saying, or perhaps only thinking, that I would be my own messenger home to Scotland.
Macartney also disappeared into the night, and this time I was really alone.
What had happened in the meantime to the battalion which had marched off in the dark while I lay at the corner of that little wood does notbelong to the story, but the adventures of the soldier who sat so long in the night by my side have an indirect bearing on my own history.
The following letter was written by Sinclair at Caudry, and posted on his escape from enemy territory:—
Caudry, Nord, France.Dear ——,—This last week has been the worst week I ever put in in my life. Since Sunday morning, 23.8.11, we have been fighting nearly every day, and to make it worse, we are being driven back by overwhelming numbers, but hope to get support soon. As I am in a house in this town, and can't move from the garret lest I be seen, as the house is now in the hands of the Germans, but, thank God, the people I am with are our friends, I know I will be safe till some arrangement is made about getting away. I am not the only one that is here; there are some poor fellows who have been in a cellar here since our retreat from this place. I know you will be wondering why I am left at the town, so I will try and explain. The officer who was in the trench with another four men and me was shot through the head early in the engagement, but after a while he came to his senses, but found he had lost the power in his legs and right arm. Well, as it happened that I was next him, it fell to me to makehim as comfortable as possible, as it was impossible to get him shifted before dark.We held the trenches till about 12P.M., when we got the order to retire. When the officer heard that we were to retire he seemed very much cut up about it, as it meant that he would be left behind to be taken prisoner.We did not care to leave him, so four of us put him on a coat and carried him about ¼ mile to where the regiment was to meet; when we got there we found there were no stretchers to put him on, so another officer gave us an order to leave him, and then decided to leave two men with him. Well, as we were left to do our best for him, by this time the battalion had passed, and not a stretcher was to be found.Hearing another regiment passing, I sent the other man to try and get a stretcher or a horse; but when he asked for a stretcher, the officer of the other regiment asked what it was for, then told him he was to go back at once and leave a water-bottle and take any message, and that both of us were to fall in in rear of his battalion at once. When our officer heard of this he told us to obey orders, so what could we do? We made him as comfortable as possible, then went to rejoin the battalion, but found that we had missed the road they had taken, so we were lost.We decided to sit in a field till daylight came,and with it came an officer of the Royal Irish, and four men who were in the same boat as ourselves. So we joined with them to try and find our way, but we did not get more than three miles when we ran into the enemy,—then it was every man for himself. I heard after from the village people that five of them were made prisoners. Anyhow I have not seen any of them since.Well, when I got away I hid at the back of a garden; they made search for me, but I happened to escape from their view. I had to sit in the same spot for over seven hours till all the Germans were clear of the place, and they were a mighty lot to pass. However, after a time the man who owned the garden got his eye on me; he then started to work about his garden. When he came up my length he dropped a loaf from under his jacket; it was very acceptable, as I was feeling very hungry. I thought it was about time I was moving, but did not know which way to go. I then decided that I would go back and see how my officer had got on, but did not get far when I struck into another lot of the enemy, and had to sit tight for another two hours. After that I got the place where our officer was left, but found that he was away from that place. I have since heard that he is in hospital at this place—Caudry. I then thought it would be advisable to make for Maubeuge, as I knew that there was a large fortthere; but when I made inquiries from the people as to the direction, all they would tell me was that the enemy was all round, and it would be impossible to get away from here.In fact, I had been very lucky to get as far as I did without being caught, so they advised me to hide my kit and rifle, and put on civilian clothes till such time as the road gets cleared of the enemy. After having changed my clothes, one of them brought me to this town, and left me at this house....P.S.—I am trying to escape from this place to-night.7485 Pte.R. Sinclair,D Co.,—— Batt.,—— Inf. Brigade,3rd Div.
Caudry, Nord, France.
Dear ——,—This last week has been the worst week I ever put in in my life. Since Sunday morning, 23.8.11, we have been fighting nearly every day, and to make it worse, we are being driven back by overwhelming numbers, but hope to get support soon. As I am in a house in this town, and can't move from the garret lest I be seen, as the house is now in the hands of the Germans, but, thank God, the people I am with are our friends, I know I will be safe till some arrangement is made about getting away. I am not the only one that is here; there are some poor fellows who have been in a cellar here since our retreat from this place. I know you will be wondering why I am left at the town, so I will try and explain. The officer who was in the trench with another four men and me was shot through the head early in the engagement, but after a while he came to his senses, but found he had lost the power in his legs and right arm. Well, as it happened that I was next him, it fell to me to makehim as comfortable as possible, as it was impossible to get him shifted before dark.
We held the trenches till about 12P.M., when we got the order to retire. When the officer heard that we were to retire he seemed very much cut up about it, as it meant that he would be left behind to be taken prisoner.
We did not care to leave him, so four of us put him on a coat and carried him about ¼ mile to where the regiment was to meet; when we got there we found there were no stretchers to put him on, so another officer gave us an order to leave him, and then decided to leave two men with him. Well, as we were left to do our best for him, by this time the battalion had passed, and not a stretcher was to be found.
Hearing another regiment passing, I sent the other man to try and get a stretcher or a horse; but when he asked for a stretcher, the officer of the other regiment asked what it was for, then told him he was to go back at once and leave a water-bottle and take any message, and that both of us were to fall in in rear of his battalion at once. When our officer heard of this he told us to obey orders, so what could we do? We made him as comfortable as possible, then went to rejoin the battalion, but found that we had missed the road they had taken, so we were lost.
We decided to sit in a field till daylight came,and with it came an officer of the Royal Irish, and four men who were in the same boat as ourselves. So we joined with them to try and find our way, but we did not get more than three miles when we ran into the enemy,—then it was every man for himself. I heard after from the village people that five of them were made prisoners. Anyhow I have not seen any of them since.
Well, when I got away I hid at the back of a garden; they made search for me, but I happened to escape from their view. I had to sit in the same spot for over seven hours till all the Germans were clear of the place, and they were a mighty lot to pass. However, after a time the man who owned the garden got his eye on me; he then started to work about his garden. When he came up my length he dropped a loaf from under his jacket; it was very acceptable, as I was feeling very hungry. I thought it was about time I was moving, but did not know which way to go. I then decided that I would go back and see how my officer had got on, but did not get far when I struck into another lot of the enemy, and had to sit tight for another two hours. After that I got the place where our officer was left, but found that he was away from that place. I have since heard that he is in hospital at this place—Caudry. I then thought it would be advisable to make for Maubeuge, as I knew that there was a large fortthere; but when I made inquiries from the people as to the direction, all they would tell me was that the enemy was all round, and it would be impossible to get away from here.
In fact, I had been very lucky to get as far as I did without being caught, so they advised me to hide my kit and rifle, and put on civilian clothes till such time as the road gets cleared of the enemy. After having changed my clothes, one of them brought me to this town, and left me at this house....
P.S.—I am trying to escape from this place to-night.
7485 Pte.R. Sinclair,D Co.,—— Batt.,—— Inf. Brigade,3rd Div.
The night passed slowly by the little wood among the beetroot, where I had been left with my rolled-up mackintosh for a pillow, and a shell-torn greatcoat for shelter from the drizzling rain. On my left the burning village of Audencourt, less than half a mile away, lit up the night with a steady glow which occasionally leapt into flame. On the right, some distance away, a house, or houses, flamed high for a long time, and then all was black and dark again. The slowly moving dawn showed that I was lying within ten or twelveyards off the road which runs from Beaumont across the fields to the road between Caudry and Audencourt.
As I looked towards Audencourt a man in khaki came running. At the sound of my whistle he leapt aside like a deer, then when he saw me lying, ran up. I asked to be lifted down into the sunken road, as I was afraid of lying out in the open on account of possible shell fire. The soldier (a man in the Irish Rifles) took me by the shoulders and dragged me down the bank, made me as comfortable as he could, and then ran off down the road, crossed the road between Caudry and Audencourt, and disappeared across country. Hardly had he disappeared from view when two shells exploded somewhere behind me.
It was now clear, but not full daylight. Two French peasants came up the road; I tried to call to them with the purpose of getting carried away on a cart, and so avoid being taken prisoner. But the peasants were frightened to come near me; they made a detour in the field, and joined the road again fifty yards higher up.
The first I saw of the Germans was a small party of about seven or eight advancing across the field on my left in extended order. The one nearest to hand saw me, and calling the others, they all came and stood on the road in a circle. Their attitude was distinctly sympathetic,but I was too far gone to struggle with their language.
I watched these men following the line taken by the Irish soldier, and wondered if they were tracking him, and would overtake him.
Before very long another and larger party appeared beside me on the road, but I was quite unable to speak to them, and after stopping to stare, they went on their way.
The whole tide of invasion was now sweeping over the land. Several Uhlans galloped past across the fields, and the road from Audencourt, which was about 150 yards from where I lay, was filled with a procession of machine-guns and transport waggons.
For some inexplicable reason I now tried to get away. By seizing a tuft of grass in the left hand I could move along a few inches at a time. After advancing in this manner about a foot along the edge of the road, I collapsed from exhaustion, and drew the greatcoat over my head. I do not know how long I had been thus covered up when I heard a shout, and peeping through one of the holes in the coat saw a German soldier standing on top of the bank. He was gesticulating and pointing to his revolver, trying to find out if I was armed! but he soon saw I was past further fighting.
He offered me a drink from his water-bottle, andpointed to the Red Cross on his arm. I can never hope to convey to any one what a relief it was to me to see the cross even on the arm of an enemy. The man asked me if I could walk, tried to lift me up, and when he saw I was paralysed said he would go for a stretcher.
"You will go away and leave me here," I said.
"I am of the Red Cross," he replied; "you are therefore my Kamarad and I will never leave you."
I gave him my whistle. Before going off to seek for help he stood on top of the bank looking down on me where I lay, and pointed once more to the Red Cross badge. "Kamarad, Kamarad, I will come back; never fear, I will come back."
I covered up my head again and fell into a semi-conscious stupor.
The sound of a step on the road aroused my attention, and for a brief instant my eyes seemed to deceive, for they showed me the tall figure of an old man dressed in a white overall. Behind him were two youths carrying a stretcher.
The figure spoke in French: "Are you a wounded British officer? There are three that I am looking for; do you know where the others are?"
I told him our trenches were close behind; and as he and his acolytes were off at once for further search, leaving the stretcher on the road, I added, "First put me on the stretcher." To lie on the stretcher after the hard ground was inexpressiblerelief to my paralysed limbs. Soon the white figure returned. "We have found them, but they are both dead,et un d'eux a l'air si jeune." The sun was shining with vigorous warmth. One of the boys shaded my head with his cap, and we were about to start when my friend of the German Red Cross appeared on top of the bank with a stretcher. At the same time our little group was joined by a young Uhlan officer. The German Red Cross man wished to transfer me to his stretcher, and the old man in white was determined not to let me go. The beginning of a discussion instantly ceased on the arrival of the German officer, who, speaking French with ease, turned first to the old Frenchman, "Where is your Red Cross armlet? What authority have you to search for wounded?"
The old man drew from his pocket a Red Cross badge, which seemed sufficient authority. The officer, sitting on his horse between the two stretchers, then looked down at me, "Choisissez," he said.
I answered him with a smile, "J'y suis j'y reste."
The German Red Cross soldier came up to my stretcher and took my hand, "Adieu, Kamarad."
The young German officer leant over and offered me a piece of chocolate. "Why have you English come against us?" he said; "it is no use. We shall be in Paris in three days. We have no quarrel with you English."
His eyes sparkled with the joy of victory, yet as he rode off I knew that some day his turn would come to lie even as I was.
At the entrance, or near the entrance to the village of Caudry, we were stopped by another officer on horseback. This time the colloquy was in English. "Officer? What regiment? Good! What Brigade?" "I don't know." "How many divisions were you?" "I don't know." "Ah, you won't tell me, but I know there were four divisions. We have captured men from many different regiments. Pass on."
On the way through the village the stretcher party was held up by the passing of a grey-coated infantry regiment. I have in my mind just a glimpse of the houses in the village, and one of them wrecked by a shell, but I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open when my stretcher was put down outside the school, which had been turned into a field-ambulance during yesterday's battle.
The French have many qualities, but order in emergency is not one of them.
A crowd of civilians blocked the entrance to the school, and swarmed chattering around my stretcher: "Il est mort! Mais non il n'est pas mort, il respire! Mais je dis qu'il est mort!"
I settled the discussion by opening one weakly indignant eye.
On being carried into a room which is on theright as you go in at the lobby, I was put on a table. Part of the crowd from the street followed on behind. Some one at once took my boots off, and forgot to give them back again. The doctor took off my bandage and applied something which felt like snow to the top of my head, then whispered in my ear, "Do not speak, do not think; keep quiet if you wish to live."
Meubles vousà la MaisonCAMILLE WANECQ,160 Rue St Quentin,Caudry.Specialité deBureaux Américains.Livraison à domicile.
Meubles vousà la Maison
CAMILLE WANECQ,160 Rue St Quentin,Caudry.
Specialité deBureaux Américains.
Livraison à domicile.
The furniture had been removed from la maison Camille Wanecq and the shop turned into a hospital ward. The tall grey-bearded man in the white coat, who had taken complete charge, brought me to this house, which was opposite his own. Here on the night of the 26th word had been left that three British officers were lying wounded near the village of Audencourt. At daybreak M. Heloire had put on his white overall (he is a veterinary surgeon), set out with a stretcher, and searched until he found me lying by the roadside.
Still under the guidance of M. Heloire, I was taken through the shop up to a room on the first floor. The staircase is very steep, and they had great difficulty with the stretcher. I distinctly remember wondering if a coffin would present equal difficulties on the way down.
For the first time I began to feel great pain in my feet. There was also an awful twitching, jerky, sawing movement of the right arm, over which I had no control. This spasmodic movement was only stilled by the injection of morphia.
When the effects of the first injection began to pass off, I was conscious of some one sitting by the bedside, and, feeling very thirsty, I asked the shadowy form "à boire." The shadow did not respond, and after a while made the following remark: "I dunno what 'e is saying; 'e must be off his chump."
My brain was scarcely able for thought in more than one language, and it was after a long pause that I said in English, "Who the devil are you?"
The voices said they were English Red Cross soldiers, and had been sent in to look after me by a tall old gentleman dressed in a white coat.
Now this most excellent M. Heloire had acted as he thought for the best, but the result was not at all a happy one for me. Whenever I wanted anything the soldiers went downstairs and brought upsomebody to whom I had to interpret my requirements. In my exhausted condition this was impossible. The request for a drink and the short conversation with the soldiers had nearly finished me off, but I made one more effort to a large French-speaking shadow. I said, "Renvoyez les anglais."
And so the English soldiers were sent away, and I came under the care of Marthe and Madeleine.
To my dim consciousness all persons were manifest as shadows. Marthe and Madeleine took turns watching me day and night. Marthe sat weeping; a long, long way off her shadow seemed, yet in an instant that same shadow was bending over the bed. "A boire." The water remained untasted; some of it trickled down my face. Then they tried in vain to get me to suck the liquid up a straw. I could hear every word spoken in whispers round my bed. "Il faut aller chercher M. le Curé et M. Heloire," and some one at the door murmured in a low voice, "Il va mourir cette nuit le pauvre." My own thoughts were monopolised by the thirst of fever. Deep black shadows now hovered round my bed. There seemed to be two—one larger and more active than the other. A voice full of pity asked me if I wished to make my confession. The possibility of speech was far away, and even to think was an effort that seemed dangerous. Seeing that I was too weak to make any response, thetwo Curés administered Extreme Unction. The sound of prayers, which seemed so far away, mingled with the tramp of soldiers, martial music, the rattle of wheels on the cobble-stones, the ceaseless tumult of invasion which for two days and two nights rolled on through the paved streets of Caudry.
It was indeed a feeble dam which from the 23rd to the 26th had held back such a torrent as, while I lay there listening, was flowing on triumphant and irresistible.
Early next morning M. le Curé returned.
"Yes," said Marthe, "he is better; see, he can drink from a glass." Marthe and Madeleine were arranging a table, some one in the room was weeping, the shadows moved and prayed.
There is between life and death a period when the normal process of thought comes to an end—a new mode of consciousness is taking the place of the old—the soul, standing on the threshold, looks back at the body lying helpless.
During the night, in that little room in Caudry, while Marthe sat by my bedside and wept, I was slowly discovering another self, distinct from the body lying on the bed, and yet connected with it in mist and shadow; and this was the shadow of death.
"En haut! Montez au numéro sept," shouted a shrill female voice; "c'est un officier, il faut le mettre au numéro sept."
And so I became No. 7, Hôpital Civil, Cambrai. My room was a small one on the first floor; the furniture consisted of two beds and two iron stands. The floor was polished, the walls painted a dull brown, the door of iron, with upper panel of glazed glass. It was some time before these surroundings presented themselves to my view. At least forty-eight hours I remained without much consciousness, thankful in my lucid intervals that the jolting of the cart which brought me the eight miles from Caudry had ceased, thankful for the soft bed and the quiet cool room.
I wonder if Dr Debu remembers his first visit to me as well as I do? My memory of all that happened during these days is very clear.
I could not yet see faces, to me nurse and doctor were different coloured shadows, yet I remember well the nurse whispering to the doctor, "He is very bad," and the doctor answering, "Oui! mais je crois qu'il va s'en tirer." I do not remember exactly when I began to recognise faces and to speak. They told me later, but at the time I did not realise that the words came singly and with great difficulty, as if the language was unfamiliar.
My powers of speech were stimulated by a visit from Madame la Directrice of the hospital, who came to my bedside speaking with weird gestures in a strange tongue. It occurred to me that she might perhaps be trying to speak English, and so I addressed her slowly as follows: "Mettez vous bien dans la tête, Madame, que je parle le Français aussi bien que vous." After that day no one in the hospital made any further attempt to practise English at my bedside.
The adjoining bed was occupied for a short time by a French Colonel, who had been shot through both thighs and seemed in great pain. The whole night long he kept up a constant groaning, with intermittent exclamation in a loud voice, "Je suis dans des souffrances atrrroces." These Marseillais are a most talkative race. This one was also very deaf.