The warmest bit of work I was ever in was when I was injured. Some
seven or eight of us and about the same number of Hussars were on
patrol in a village. We had dismounted, and were talking over matters
when quite unexpectedly some shrapnel shells burst over our heads and
brought down some of the cottages. Our officer hurried up to us and
ordered us to mount and retire. When we had all mounted he shouted,
“Gallop away; every man for himself!” I just remember being hit in the
left thigh first. At the same moment the old mare seemed to falter a
little. The enemy had our range to a yard, and again and again the
shells burst among and above us, bringing some of the fellows down,
man and horse. Then something struck me in the right hip, but we kept
on, and after five or ten minutes’ ride we came on our own regiment
dismounted for action. I think about seven or eight of us got through:
_A Private of the 12th Lancers_.
“Breath-stoppers”
There was a farmhouse up the hill, and from this a Maxim gun was
pouring out a continuous stream of little “breath-stoppers.” The
British fixed bayonets and charged the house. On the farm were found
about a score of the enemy, who made absolutely no resistance. On the
contrary they laughed, and were thankful it was all over and that they
were safe. On searching the bushes it was found that several of the
enemy had taken refuge--some were dead and others wounded. One feigned
having been shot, but after being carried down the hill by a British
soldier and finding he was safe, he was all right. He confirms the
stories that have come to hand from many sources that the Germans fear
the British bayonet: _Pte. V. Wells, Worcestershire Regiment_.
Ghostly!
One night we were lying quietly in some woods when we heard the rattle
of hoofs all along the road making enough noise to wake the whole
dead in all the graveyards of the world. There was a regiment of the
Kaiser’s pets, the Uhlans, coming along as lively as larks on a summer
morning. We waited for them at the bend of the road, just close to the
cemetery, and when we crashed into them I think they imagined we were
ghosts. Very tough we were, to be sure, and a ghost that feels for
your ribs with a lance at midnight is an ugly customer to deal with.
Those chaps didn’t half howl with rage and fear when we went into them,
and as soon as they could turn their horses they were off down the
road like blue murder. We captured half of them, and cut up the rest:
_Sergt. Diamond, of the Lancers_.