ONE YOUNG MAN GETS A "BLIGHTY"
Sydney Baxter's Division was on the left flank of the British attack
at Gommecourt, which met with great stubbornness on the part of the
enemy, and resulted in heavy losses. He writes:
"I was in charge of the 'Battle Police' that day, and we had
to accompany the bombers. We started over the top under
heavy fire and many were bowled over within a few minutes.
"Lanky of limb, I was soon through the barbed wire and came
to the first trench and jumped in. Some seven of us were
there, and as senior N.C.O. I led the way along the trench.
One Hun came round the corner, and he would have been dead
but for his cry 'Kamerad blessé.' I lowered my rifle, and,
making sure he had no weapon, passed him to the rear and led
on. We had just connected up with our party on the left when
I felt a pressure of tons upon my head. My right eye was
sightless, with the other I saw my hand with one finger
severed, covered in blood. A great desire came over me to
sink to the ground, into peaceful oblivion, but the peril of
such weakness came to my mind, and with an effort I pulled
myself together. I tore my helmet from my head, for the
concussion had rammed it tight down. The man in front
bandaged my head and eye. Blood was pouring into my mouth,
down my tunic.
"They made way for me, uttering cheery words, 'Stick it,
Corporal, you'll soon be in Blighty,' one said. Another,
'Best of luck, old man.' I made my way slowly--not in pain,
I was too numbed for that. My officer gave me a pull at his
whisky bottle, and further on our stretcher-bearers bandaged
my head and wiped as much blood as they could from my face.
I felt I could go no further, but a 'runner' who was going
to H.Q. led me back. I held on to his equipment, halting for
cover when a shell came near, and hurrying when able. I
eventually got to our First Aid Post. There I fainted away.
"I awoke next day just as I was being lifted on to the
operating table, and whilst under an anaesthetic my eye was
removed. Although I was not aware of this for some time
afterwards I did not properly come to until I was on the
hospital train the following day bound for the coast. I
opened my eye as much as possible and recognised two of my
old chums, but conversation was impossible; I was too weak.
The next five days I spent at a hospital near Le Treport. My
mother was wired for, and the offending piece of shell was
abstracted by a magnet. It couldn't be done by knife, as it
was too near the brain."
Thus far Sydney Baxter tells his own story of the great day of his
life. I leave it as it stands, though I could add so much to it if I
would. Will you picture to yourself this sightless young man, with
torn head and shattered hand piteously struggling from those shambles?
Will you look at him--afterwards? It's worth while trying to do so.
You and I have _got_ to see war before we can do justice to the
warrior.
The piece of shell which entered his head just above the right eye
opened up the frontal sinuses, exposing the brain. "It is wonderful,"
wrote the doctor who attended him, "how these fellows who have been
fighting for us exhibit such a marvellous fortitude." He had lost the
end of his fourth finger and another has since been entirely
amputated.
To the amazement of all, Sydney Baxter, within a few hours of his
operation, asked for postcards. He wrote three--one to his mother, one
to someone else's sister, and one to his firm.
This last postcard is a treasured possession of Sydney Baxter's
business. It runs as follows:
_July 4th, 1916._
"Have unfortunately fallen victim to the Hun shell in the
last attack. I am not sure to what extent I am damaged. The
wounds are the right eye, side of face, and left hand. They
hope to save my eye, and I have only lost one finger on
hand.
"I will write again, sir, when I arrive in England. At
present am near Dieppe."
"_Only_ lost"--that seems to me great.
Above the postcard on the business notice-board the chief wrote: "The
pluckiest piece of writing that has ever reached this office." And by
that he stands.
At Treport Sydney Baxter has his last experience of the Y.M.C.A. in
France.
"One of its members came round the ward, speaking cheery
words and offering to write home for us. It sounds a small
work, but it was a boon to those of us too weak for even a
postcard, or those who had lost or injured their right arms.
The nurses are far too busy and cannot do it, and other
patients are in a like condition. I always looked out for
that gentleman of the Y.M. I was not allowed to read or sit
up, and the days dragged horribly. Thursday evening came and
many were sent to Blighty. I worried the doctor as to when I
should go, and always received the non-committal reply,
'When you are fit to travel.' Saturday, however, found me on
board of a hospital ship, and at 9 o'clock that night we
arrived at Southampton. Ant-like, the stretcher-bearers went
to and fro, from ship to train. For some reason or other
they dumped me in a corner with my head nearest the scene of
activities, so that I was unable to interest myself in
watching the entraining of others. I feverishly hoped they
wouldn't forget me and put me in the wrong train. I was not
forgotten by one person, however. He was not an official,
not a R.A.M.C. man--no, just a Y.M.C.A. man, ministering to
our comfort, lighting cigarettes for the helpless, arranging
pillows, handing chocolate to a non-smoker, with a smile and
a cheery word for every one. He asked me where I lived and
spoke cheerily to me of soon seeing my mother and friends,
and then left on a like errand to another chap. This, as I
look back, was typical of all the work of the Y.M.C.A. Its
helpers are always at the right place doing the right thing.
That is why they have earned Tommy's undying gratitude."
Next day this one young man was being tenderly and graciously cared
for in a hospital in Wales. He had finished his bit. To the office he
wrote:
_July 12th, 1916._
"The Hun has put me completely out of action, and I hope
within a few months to be amongst you all again--for good,
and certainly in time for the autumn session.
"The sight of my right eye has completely gone out, but as
long as the left one keeps as it is I shall not be seriously
handicapped. My glass eye will be an acceptable ornament.
The left hand will mend in time; when healed, it will be
pushed and squeezed into its original shape. Apart from the
wounds I feel very well, and my rapid recovery has surprised
all. The first three days in France were critical, and
mother was sent for. However, I pulled through and feel as
active as ever--at least, I do whilst in bed."
The hole in Sydney Baxter's nut--I use his own phrase--is healing. His
hand has been more than once under the surgeon's knife, and he can now
wear a glove with cotton-wool stuffed into two of the fingers. He sees
fairly well from the unbandaged side of his face.
_The chief tells me that Sydney Baxter will have the desire of his
heart: he will be "back at business in time for the Christmas
rush."_
London:
Printed By C. F. Roworth Ltd., 88 Fetter Lane, E.C.4.