The two men tried once more to get away and reach the British lines.
Potts attempted to carry Andrews, but he was too weak and the effort
failed. Then, says the London _Times_, when hope itself seemed to be
abandoned, an inspiration came, suggested by an ordinary entrenching
shovel, one of many which were lying on the hill. Potts wriggled to
the shovel, managed to support Andrews on it, stood up, and dragged
desperately—all the more so because as soon as he rose the Turks opened
fire. Famished and exhausted, he could not do more than pull his burden
over the rough ground for about six yards; then he collapsed. Andrews,
too, had suffered severely under the strain. But the next night Potts
resumed his forlorn hope. He had his comrade on the shovel, lying flat;
he supported him as best he could, and Andrews held grimly on to his
rescuer’s wrists. For more than three hours, in the bright moonlight,
down the scrub-infested, stony, dusty hillside, Private Potts dragged
his helpless burden on the shovel; then came a sentry’s challenge,
“Halt!” Inexpressibly joyful was the sound of the British voice to the
two worn-out troopers; grimly humorous was the sentry’s question:
“What are you doing? Are you burying the dead?”
Potts explained: “I have a chap here wounded, and I’ve dragged him down
the hill on a shovel. Could you not give me a hand?”
Give a hand! Many a willing hand was given that night at the foot of
that fatal hill, the scene of much tragedy, yet relieved by the bravery
and resource of the twenty-two year old trooper, who might easily have
saved himself by abandoning his wounded fellow; but he was not of that
breed.