The fiercest fighting took place when the Germans tried to force
a passage of the river at various points. As they came up the
fords--every one of which was commanded by our artillery and bodies
of picked French and British riflemen--they were galled terribly by
the rifle fire, and we kept plugging them with shells as fast as we
could. For a while it didn’t seem to be of any use, for as one man
fell another stepped forward to take his place, but he only struggled
on a few yards before falling in his turn before the hellish fire we
poured on them. They had evidently made up their minds to get the
pontoons into position regardless of cost in lives. The first party got
theirs in position nicely, and then came rushing across like a swarm
of bees rushing out of their hives to see what was wrong. A shell from
a French battery hidden on our left dropped right on to them, and the
thing went toppling into the river with its human load, being carried
downstream under a heavy rifle and shell fire. The same thing went on
the whole day, until we were sick of the sight, and mists of blood were
floating before our eyes, and the cries of the drowning and dying men
were always ringing in our ears. That was the daily programme as I saw
it until I got hit and was sent home. Only at one point did they manage
to cross the river, and then they had to face a bayonet charge from the
Allies’ infantry, who rushed on them with rare joy and hurled them back
into the river: _A Driver of the Royal Artillery_.
War--and Peace!
It was a jolly hot shop. A lot of the chaps of the section of ----
Battery were wounded. I cannot explain everything, only when those
shells were bursting all around us and over us, and the rifle and
machine-gun bullets were dropping and whizzing round us, a lot of us
thought of home and other things. We had to man-handle our guns out,
while the other batteries drew their fire. We had one officer left. We
were complimented by the colonel, who repeated General French’s and
General Gough’s orders that they were proud of us for the cool and
brave way in which we worked the gun under heavy fire. Our colonel,
poor old chap, nearly cried. He said: “Needless to say, lads, I am
proud of you too,” and he walked away. He could not say any more. I
don’t want to be in another action like that. The prettiest sight I saw
out here was one hot day when we were retreating. We were all paraded,
tired and hungry. We went through a little village. At the end of the
village there was a little convent, and the nuns in their long grey
uniform and white headdress, with crucifix hanging on their breast,
were distributing wine and fruit to us as we marched through. They
were lovely little women; and the way they came out went straight to
my heart. They looked so good, pure, and holy. It is a picture I shall
always remember: _Gunner Osborne, Royal Horse Artillery_.
Hard Going!
I was on patrol duty the other day. I can’t tell you the name of the
place, but there was a chum of mine, an officer, and myself. We met
five German Uhlans going down the road. They were in front of us, so we
got on the grass on the side of the road and galloped right on top of
them. They saw us when we were about eight yards away. They tried to
get away from us, but we were into them. Our officer got the first one
with his sword, and as the German fell out of the saddle the officer’s
horse fell over him. That left me and my mate for the other four. Even
then they would not face us. All the better for us. I got the next
fellow. I put my sword right through him, and my mate did the same with
another. Then we went after the other two. Both of us got up to one of
them at the same time, and he got both swords through him. He did try
to defend himself, for he got me on the lip with his lance and knocked
two of my teeth out and took a piece out of my lip. It was not much,
but he will never take any more pieces out, for he got both our swords
into him. While we were trying to draw our swords out the last of the
Uhlans got off his horse and tried to escape in the woods. I fell off
my horse in my haste trying to get up to shoot him. All the same I shot
him through the head, and he was as dead as a door-nail when I got up
to him: _Private M. Ferguson_.