I was out with the Austin car convoying three motor-lorries with
supplies for a cavalry brigade, when we were pounced upon by a bunch of
German cavalry, who took us prisoners, and took everything I had except
the clothes I was wearing. All our men, twenty in number, including an
officer, were put back to a wall and kept there with an armed guard. I
was made to turn the motor round. They put eight Germans in the car,
and I had an officer with a revolver pointing at my head standing on
the step. They then made me reconnoitre the villages for two hours,
looking for the positions of the British troops, which they did not
find, but they went mighty close at one time. Upon returning to the
same spot we were put in the middle of a line of German cavalry, about
6000 strong, and taken up a steep hill to a plateau on top. As soon as
it became daylight they were spotted by our cavalry and artillery, who
made short work of them; but they kept us right in their fighting line
to the very last, when they bolted and left us: _Private H. L. Simmons,
of Addlestone_.
“Poor Old Bones!”
I look an awful picture. My clothing is torn to shreds. I have lost all
my buttons, and it is dreadful cold at nights, but I cuddle up against
the horses for warmth. Our horses are terrified, mad, but my two seem a
bit at ease when I lie down beside them at night. If I leave them for
a minute there is no pacifying them. You would die of laughing if you
saw me now. I am writing this across the horse’s belly. He is too tired
to rise, but he gives me such knowing looks at times. He is a proper
chum. He is a grey, and you should see the mess I have made trying to
discolour him. He has tar mixed with moss rubbed over him. Every kind
of dust and dirt I could get has been rubbed on him. I have to laugh
when I look at him, and the officer this morning nearly had a fit. Of
course, there is a humorous side to everything. We would never live if
there wasn’t. The noise is deafening. You can’t hear your mate speak
unless he shouts in your ear. The bursting of the shells is appalling,
but poor old “bones” lies here as if he was in the stable at home. He
is dead beat, and so am I, but there is no actual rest here; it is only
a lull: _A Private of the Scots Greys_.