It fairly tickled me to death, that did, and I couldn't stop laughing.
Why? Well, a bit of fun I once saw at a pantomime flashed through my
mind. A comedian who played the part of the squire, revolver in hand,
rounded up all the servants, male and female, butlers and gardeners,
and up went their hands. Then he came to the grandfather clock,
pointed his revolver at it, shouting, "Hands up!" and immediately the
hands of the clock whizzed round.
Well, I tell you I roared with laughter at the thought coming into my
mind at such a time, when I was playing a lone hand, for it looked so
comical to see them all with their hands up--over a hundred of 'em,
hoping against hope that Private Jones, Kamerad, wouldn't shoot.
I wondered what was going to happen next, for it was out of the
question that one chap could keep them there for any length of time.
But the bowling over of the chap who tried to escape was the best thing
that could have happened for me, and it fairly put the fear of God
into the rest. The official report speaks of me bringing in a hundred
and two, but, though I didn't check their numbers, there must have
been nearly a hundred and fifty of them when I got them into the open,
including four or five officers and any number of non-coms, or whatever
the Germans call them. But before they got into our lines, over forty
of them were killed by our shells, which were sweeping the ground and
clearing things up generally.
But I'm over-running my story. I had scarcely finished laughing about
the clock putting its hands up, when I saw somebody start from our
lines. It was my chum coming to look for me. He had been asking where
I was, and, when they told him, he said: "If Todger's across there I'm
going to fetch him, dead or alive!" They all thought I was a "goner,"
but, when they saw my chum start, three more chaps--a sergeant-major,
a corporal, and a stretcher-bearer--came across with him. Seeing I was
alive, my chum gave me a smack on the face, and couldn't stop larking.
They helped me to "round-up" the "bag," and we marched them back to
our lines. All the time our guns were knocking the position to bits,
and, as I've said, some of the shells dropped amongst the prisoners and
killed them. I got a shrapnel wound in the neck from our barrage, but
it wasn't much. Strictly speaking, I suppose I ought never to have been
in the game, but I wouldn't have missed it for worlds. When I went over
my arm was a bit painful, for I was wounded on September 5th, and had
refused to go into hospital.
Looking back, and thinking over the incident, I feel that I must have
had what the poets call "a charmed life," for after jumping out of the
trench, and before I had accounted for the sniper in the tree, a bullet
went through my helmet, and was buzzing round my head-piece like a
marble in a basin, finally galloping down my back and burning me during
the journey. Four or five other bullets passed through my tunic, but I
wasn't aware of it until afterwards. It never entered my mind that I
should be killed, and I didn't think my time had come.
Asked if he could explain how he was led into the exploit, "Todger"
said, with a grin, "When I saw the first three men in the bay I knew I
was up against something, but I had been in more than one tight corner
before, and I had learned that the art of warfare--for the individual,
at any rate--was to size up a situation quickly, to fire without
hesitation, and hit your man."
"And," inquired the interviewer, "was there no period during the
incident that you felt that the proposition was too big for you?"
"I should be lying," was the answer, "if I didn't admit that I
was glad, jolly glad, to see my pals come over, but I was cool as
cool could be, and the lesson I applied was never to lose this
(significantly touching his head). The man who loses his 'nob' is done
for. I knew if I had to go I should, for everybody has his time, that's
what I believe, and I meant to sell myself at a good price. But when I
got the first men in the traverse, and drove the others back into the
dug-outs, I felt that the game was in my hands. I had them at my mercy;
they didn't know I was unsupported; I cowed them into submission to my
orders; I pictured the end that awaited them if a hair of my sacred
head was singed, and my trump card was played in making them come out
one by one without any equipment."