_Told by a Man Who Stopped a Bullet_
The writer of this vivid narrative, a British soldier, was
wounded in Mesopotamia during an unsuccessful attempt to relieve
Kut-el-Amara, shortly before its fall. Recorded in _Current
History_.
I slipped my left hand into my tunic and was surprised to feel the hot
blood pouring out. Then it dawned on me that I had been hit, and pretty
badly, too. My equipment was hurting me, so I took it off.
I felt very dizzy, and decided to try and get back as far as I could. I
stood up, a very unwise thing to do, considering that I was about 150
yards from the Turkish trench and must have made an easy mark, but I
was not hit again immediately. My legs gave way and I collapsed and lay
flat for a time. I thought if I was not to bleed to death I must make
an effort to put my field bandage in place. So with difficulty I pulled
it from my tunic pocket. The outer covering came off easily, and I took
out one of the packets, but could see no way to slit it open. Finally
I gripped the edge of the packet in my teeth and tore at it with both
hands till it opened. I put the pad on the wound, as near as I could,
but had no means of keeping it there, so I staggered to my feet and ran
on, keeping the pad in place with my left hand. I believe I covered
another fifty yards when I dropped again and lay in a kind of stupor.
I was aroused by the almost continuous "krock" of bursting shrapnel.
Shells were dropping right and left, and the air was full of moaning
and screaming as the bullets flew by. I managed to get on my feet
again, although the effort made the blood spurt out anew. The sodden
pad had slipped down and a burning pain in the pit of my stomach caused
me to double up in agony and slide onto my knees. I started crawling
painfully along until I came to a small mound which would at least
afford "head over." I crept behind it and lay in the only position I
could, on my left side.
I passed my hand over myself to feel for a wound, but could not find
one. The bullet had entered the small of my back and lodged under my
breast bone. Gradually the more intense pain passed away, leaving a not
unpleasant sense of numbness over all my body.
The persistent calling of a man in pain brought me back to
consciousness. The pitiless sun was blazing high in the heavens, and I
felt hot and dry. Somebody was shouting "Fetch the stretcher-bearers,
you fools: are you going to leave me here?" At first I felt very sorry
for him, but soon wished he would stop, for I had a shocking headache.
I judged it to be about midday, and thought that in another six hours
I had a good chance of being brought in.
I was horrified to see that the water of the Suwaicha Marsh, which
was on our right flank, had risen considerably, and I feared for any
of our wounded who were further out on the right and unable to crawl
away from the menace. The man who was shouting stopped, and everything
was strangely calm and peaceful. I felt very happy and contented then,
for as long as I kept quite still the pain was very dull, so I began
singing and mumbling away in a quiet voice:
"Where my caravan has rested
Flowers I'll strew there on the grass."
I sang again and again, accompanied by a strange roaring in my chest.
My caravan, I thought, had rested in some very unusual places, but none
so unusual as this. And what was the use of talking about the grass in
the desert of Mesopotamia, where there is nothing but the yellow earth,
the blue sky, the hot sun, and dirty water?
There was a water bottle, equipment, and rifle lying close to my head,
and I have a vague remembrance of a Sikh lying beside me for a time
and then jumping up and running back. I slowly put my right arm up,
caught the sling, and dragged the bottle nearer. I pulled the cork out
somehow, and propped the bottle against my face, with the neck to my
lips, but was much upset to find I had not the strength to lift it up.
Tears rolled down my cheeks after I had made two or three attempts, for
I was very thirsty. I sang no more, as my throat was harsh and lumpy.
So I lay staring at the yellow and blue till I lost consciousness once
more.
This time I was roused by our own guns, and the sound was most
comforting. "Giving 'em hell," I thought gleefully. They bombarded for
about an hour, and then I slipped back into unconsciousness. It was
getting dark when I came to again. A man was standing close to me,
staring round the field. Somebody had put my sun helmet on my head. He
came over to me. "Are the stretcher-bearers coming?" I asked, and he
told me I was the next to be moved. It was not long before the bearers
came, and they put the stretcher behind me. It was painful work getting
on the stretcher, as I could not bear to have my body touched anywhere.
However, it was managed at last, and I lay on my left side.
I suppose they went as gently as they could, but every step racked my
body so much that I was nearly mad with pain. I cannot remember how
far it was to the dressing station, but I remember passing through
the artillery lines, where the guns had started again. I was put on a
table, still on the stretcher, and was pleased to see our battalion
doctor. "Well, laddie," he said, "how are you?" I replied that I was
all right, but thought it "a bit thick" having to lie out there all
day. Then he started cutting my clothes up, jersey and shirt as well.
The dressing was by no means painful, but they left my hand untouched.
I asked for something to drink, but the doctor said they would give me
all I wanted at the field hospital.
Then began the worst experience I have ever been through. I was taken
to a native springless mule cart, with a few sacks and blankets thrown
in the bottom, and helped off the stretcher. The slightest movement
caused great pain, but when the cart started bumping off I was in a
positive inferno. I will not dwell on that four-mile journey from the
marsh to the riverside; suffice it to say that what little breath I
could summon was used in praying the driver to stop and leave me on the
ground.
We came to the field hospital at last. The natives pushed a stretcher
into the cart beside me, and one intelligent fellow nimbly jumped up
and stood on my smashed hand. That was the last straw. I cursed him.
When I stopped for want of breath they attempted to lift me on to the
stretcher, but I begged them to stop. I tried to get on by myself, but
could only manage to get my knees on and could not lift my body. The
natives were chattering round the cart, so I started shouting "English,
English. Fetch English," and at last a "Jock" came up to see what was
wrong. I begged him to put his hand under my shoulder and help me on
the stretcher, and in a moment I was lying on my stomach--not very
comfortable on account of my laboured breathing, but it was a rest for
my left side. When my hand had been cleaned and dressed I was put on
a mattress in a bell tent, where I tossed about in a high fever.
In the morning I was put in a paddle-boat, and I slept till it started
in the afternoon. We were taken ashore at Orah that night, and there
received better attention. I was placed on the operating table and the
bullet located and removed.
I will not describe my stay at Orah or the trip down the Tigris in the
paddle-boat to Bussorah. My hand was a fearful size and very painful.
When the ship was moored in front of Bussorah Hospital I was very weak.
Two orderlies helped me on to the stretcher, and I was carried down
the gangway to the entrance of the hospital. A Major took particulars
and consigned me to a veranda ward on the second floor. And so I was
placed in one of the whitest, cleanest, and most comfortable beds in
the world.