I was really fascinated by the shells, and was not really thinking of
anything at all. Suddenly a shell burst over my head and it got me
right in the back. I could feel my horse getting lower and lower; I
put my hand behind me and felt a lot of hot wet. I wondered if I could
get him over the ditch, but just before I got to it he rolled over
into it with me. My troop sergeant came and asked me if I could get
up. I said, “No, mate, I can’t move; I’ll have to stop here.” Then
back came the trumpeter with Captain ----, and he asked me the same
thing. If I couldn’t get on a spare horse they would have to leave me
there. I said, “Very well, sir, I’ll stop. You had better clear out.”
I crawled along the ditch to get out of the way of the shells, which
were bursting a long time after my squadron had gone to cover. I lay
there about four hours in a semi-conscious state, and when I came round
I found I had buried my head in the mud trying to get out of the way of
the shells: _A Lance-Corporal of Hussars_.
“Flying All Round”
The bullets and shells were flying all round, and did not cease until
after dark. Then was my only chance to get out. I crawled on my hands
and knees to a little inn, and there my wounds were dressed. To-day
since I have been in hospital shrapnel has been bursting all round,
but the hospital was not touched except for one bullet which struck
a window. The bullet that wounded me went into one breast pocket and
came out of the other, and in its course it passed through your photo,
making a hole in the breast. What a strange coincidence! It then passed
through my watch and struck a large clasp knife, smashing it to pieces
and driving it through my pocket: _Sergt. E. W. Turner, Royal West Kent
Regiment_.