Two hundred of us went into a big château, where we were told we would
be quite safe, and we sat down to a meal of tea and biscuits. We
were just in the middle of it when a patrol of German cavalry scouts
discovered us, and as we were eating, a shell struck the roof of the
building, smashing it into fragments. Then there was the greatest
excitement as the men scurried out of the building. As the shells were
getting very busy we lost no time in retreating from that place, and
took up our position in a field about 200 yards distant. There were a
lot of wounded around, and we were lying on a slightly elevated ridge
in the field. We had only been a short time in this position when we
saw the Somersets getting badly cut up. We went to the assistance of
the Somersets, and succeeded in checking the Germans’ advance. We began
to go forward and went at them with the bayonet, when they turned and
fled. We were just 150 yards away when they packed themselves into
motor-cars that were waiting on them and drove off, but before they
went we managed to capture five of their machine guns: _Pte. T. O’Dea,
Seaforth Highlanders_.
“Made Good!”
Our last action was the worst. Men fell like corn before the reaper.
I tell you truly, I never expected to get out alive. The Germans must
have lost thousands, but they were ten to one, so we had to retire. The
shrapnel and hail of lead and bullets--I see it all now, and I was one
of the last to leave the field. I won’t say more, only I got a bullet
through my right leg, but still kept on twenty yards or thereabouts. I
got a great piece of shrapnel shell in my neck--laid me senseless. I
came to again, and, as if possessed, ran for my life through it all
and “made good.” It’s wonderful how you can run with a bullet through
your leg. I have not been long at it, but fellows say that they saw
more in the last four days than they did in three years in Africa.
That’s the truth. Ah, well! I’m not grumbling. I’m not disfigured or
maimed like so many poor fellows, so let’s rejoice over all. Some of
our engagements lasted thirteen hours, and the last--and worst--ten
hours. So tired, must sleep: _A Lance-Sergeant of the King’s Own
Yorkshire Light Infantry_
A “Terrible Time”
We had a terrible time at Mons, and for four days and nights we did
nothing but fight, and I should think the Germans had three men to
every one of ours. On August 24 we lost one hundred men in about five
minutes. We had a mile and a half to gallop over open country with as
many as thirty shells a minute bursting round us. How I got out of it
I do not know, for I had not gone 200 yards before a shell burst under
my horse and killed it. I was not touched, and I managed, with a bit
of luck, to get another horse from a comrade who had been killed. I
am sure it was worse than hell let loose, and I think I said a prayer
afterwards, but anyway I shall soon be right now. The man who was with
me when I was wounded is dead. He died as soon as the search party
found us. He was shot twice in the stomach, whilst I was shot in the
thigh. I crawled to him when he was dying, but I could not help him as
I was in such agony myself. He gave me his papers, and I gave them to
the officer when he rode up to us: _Lance-Corpl. Potton, 18th Hussars_.