THE AFTERMATH
Once during that weary day, the Germans put over such a terrific
barrage of shrapnel, that I, for one, thought it impossible for any
of our wounded to survive. Such is the mercy of the Hun. Hour after
hour passed, casualties mounted steadily up, but those laddies held.
As time went on, the pain in my wounded leg became excruciating, and,
forgetting the etiquette of the Western Front that a man must not
squeal too much when he is hit, I groaned aloud. I shall be ashamed
to meet many of my comrades in later days, for they remember my
whimpering.
Night came, darkness being heralded by a storm of strafeing on both
sides. The bullets thudded about the top of the water hole, while
the noise of the strife drowned my yells, as the gangrene slowly ate
its way up my limb. Hour after hour I lay, till at last that grand
sergeant-major of ours came along and gave me a nip of rum. Oh, you
psalm-singers, who raise your holy hands in horror at the thought of
the perdition the boys are bound for, if they should happen to take a
nip of rum to keep a little warmth in their poor battered bodies, I
wish you could all lie shivering in a hole full of icy liquid mud,
with every nerve in your body quivering with pain, with the harrowing
moans of the wounded forever ringing in your ears, with hell's own
din raging all around. Any one of you would need a barrel of it to
keep his miserable life in his body.
Here and now let me say, the man who refuses the rum issue is
considered a fool.
Picture to yourselves the dawn after a bitter cold night in the
trenches. Weary soldiers wet to the skin, working all night in a
most dangerous place, probably expecting an immediate attack from the
enemy, dirty, vermin covered, muddy, and without one single comfort.
If rum helps under these conditions who can say nay. Some people
have the idea that the men are liberally dosed with rum before they
go over the top. This may be true in some instances, but as far as I
know, no British troops ever need that kind of Dutch courage to go
over the top. All the rum I ever got during my whole term of service
in Flanders would not make a man drunk, and it is a question whether
the amount I had for three months in the summer would make a seasoned
toper unsteady. All that a man gets is about the third part of a
small cup every night and morning.
The following from the London _Winning Post_ just about expresses my
thoughts in this regard:
I suppose we're a lot of heathens,
Don't live on the angel plan,
But we're sticking it here in the trenches,
And doing the best we can.
When preachers over in Blighty,
Who talk about Kingdom Come,
Ain't pleased with our performance,
And are wanting to stop our rum,
Water, they say, would be better;
Water! Great God, out here?
Why, we're up to our knees in water--
Do you think we're standing in beer?
Oh, it sounds all right from the pulpit,
When you sit in a cushioned pew;
But try four days in the trenches,
And see what water will do.
Some of the coffin-faced Blighters
I think must be German-bred;
It's time that they called in the doctor,
For it's water they have in the head.
That nip of rum put hope into my heart once more, and I bit my lips
and stifled my agony as well as I could.
Dawn broke, and just as the first streaks crept into the sky, the
firing died down and that mystery which broods over the wonder of
night turning into day pervaded outraged nature and even warring man.
As I watched, the details of my watery retreat became plainer and
plainer; I grew ashamed of my cowardice, and I did my best to stifle
my groans.
At last Sergeant Purslowe, a replica of Campbell in coolness and
leadership, noticed my plight and immediately set to work to get me
carried out. My comrades were only too willing, but they waited in
vain for a stretcher. Alas! There were entirely too few to
accommodate half the wounded. Nothing for it but to carry me on
their backs. Oh! the agony of that rough ride, and oh! the sacrifice
of those blood brothers of mine. With my foot hanging by a shred of
flesh, the bones grating against one another, shivering with cold,
yet with perspiration standing out from every pore with the pain, I
was gradually carried from the line we had taken. Once when passing
a huge shell crater, the pain not yet having robbed me of my senses,
I asked to be left till night-time in its shelter. It was broad
daylight, and there was that little bunch of men risking utter
annihilation just that a stricken chum might live.
They cursed my groans; they cursed the Huns; in fact, their language
was sulphurous, yet I noticed I was saved from all jar or jolt, as
far as they could prevent it; and when I asked to be left in the
shell hole they cursed me for a blankety-blank fool, and profanely
refused to do it. Think of it, you psalm-singers, who are worried
over the morals of your soldiers. Picture those men, in full view of
the Huns, in broad daylight, refusing to leave their chum at any
cost. Any minute, any second, might blast them off the face of the
earth, yet no thought for their own safety, until "Shorty" was at the
dressing station. Since that time, Campbell, Shields and Cameron,
have paid the supreme price, while Muirhead, Mead and Nish are
crippled for life.
It was curious to watch their hesitation, even in the face of the
danger they were in, to get me over the parapet into what was now the
second line trench. They hated to cause me pain. A sympathetic
Cockney, of the L.R.B.'s, gently lowered me to the fire-step and
proceeded to get a stretcher. My ride now, although terribly
painful, was decidedly easier. They tied my wounded leg to the sound
leg, thus preventing that horrible rubbing together of the fractured
bones.
Reaching the dressing station I shook hands--for the last time,
alas--with Campbell and Shields and the others, and received a huge
draught of scalding tea. The dressing station was completely empty
and it was thought I would have to wait until night, but one belated
ambulance driver came to have a final look to see if any of the boys
needed a ride down. I was hoisted aboard and oblivion promptly
followed. I awoke to find myself lying in the middle of a road on a
stretcher and a doctor smiling down at me.
"How are you, son?" said he.
"Not so bad," said I, "is it good enough for Blighty?"
"Yes," replied the genial saw-bones. "I'm going to take that foot
off right now, and I'm going to hurt you, son. It's hardly worth
while giving you any dope, since I've only to cut through that bit of
flesh. Are you game?"
"Go ahead," I replied, "I'm sick and tired of seeing the thing."
Smiling down at me, to reassure me, he reached in his pocket,
produced two cigars, placed one in his mouth, lit it, then placed it
in mine. The other he placed in the pocket of my shirt. I lay back,
averting my eyes, expecting every minute to feel a horrible cutting
sensation. Then I heard the doctor sigh. I looked up and to my
astonishment my foot was gone. Such was the amazing gentleness and
skill of the wonderful doctor; God bless him wherever he is!