We retired into a wood, and it was here that I got put out of action.
I was struck with a piece of shell, and I fell, thinking it was all
over with me. The shell had struck my pack, and I was not injured in
the least, but the strange thing was that I could not find my pack. The
straps on it had been broken. I then got up, and had not gone twenty
yards when I got what seemed like a terrible blow on the left thigh
with a big forehammer. Looking down, I saw that my kilt was all blood,
and I realized I was knocked out. I tried to get up, but my old leg
would not come. I saw my chance and seized it. An ammunition pony came
flying past me, and I made one desperate jump at it. I did not look for
the reins: I got hold of something, and I was pulled right across an
open space between the woods. My God, it was something terrible coming
over that open ground. The enemy had been waiting for our advance
across it all day. This was where most of our fellows fell. The bullets
were dropping like hail, shells were bursting all around us, and it was
worse than hell, if anything could be. A few got across, but how many I
cannot say, for when I got this length I dropped. I never saw the old
pony afterwards: _Pte. Brooks, Cameron Highlanders_.