One day I was in front of my horses with my back to the enemy, just
putting on my nosebags, when a shell from somewhere fell between the
horses and put the whole six on the ground. I was pulled up in the air
by my horse, and he dropped on his back dead. The wheel-horses were
struggling, and my wheel-driver was lying dead with his face blown
away. I did not get touched, but no sooner did the devils see that
their shells were effective than they opened fire with the whole lot of
their big guns, twelve in all, and I don’t know how many machine guns.
The din was horrible, shells screaming and whistling around me, and the
pop-pop-pop of the Maxims. I ran round to the gun and tried to get it
unlimbered, but the horses were struggling in the wheel harness and I
could not move it. Then I felt a twitch in my arm. I saw blood on my
sleeve, and the hole where the bullet went in. The use of my arm was
gone. I did not know what to do. I dropped down and crawled out of the
firing line. Another fellow came along with a wound in his hand, and
we sat there talking together till we were picked up by an ambulance:
_Driver G. Chiswell, Royal Horse Artillery_.