THE RETREAT.
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 the roadside,
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 shuttered houses 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
9 A.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 average depth 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 the
woods 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 the
long 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 the 4th 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 and up 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 driver friend 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, and many 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
church tower 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; again beyond 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
shells hit 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 9 A.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 and _débris_ rise 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 branches just 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 considerably out 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
hopped into 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."
II.
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 with most 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 was
the 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.
III.
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 not
belong 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 make him
as comfortable as possible, as it was impossible to get him shifted
before dark.
We held the trenches till about 12 P.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 fort there; 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 twelve yards 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, and pointed 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 inexpressible relief 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 the right 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 vous
à la Maison_
CAMILLE WANECQ,
160 RUE ST QUENTIN,
CAUDRY.
_Specialité de
Bureaux 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 up somebody 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, the two 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.