I was told to go back to the farmhouse and cut the horses loose. I did
so. Then God answered my prayer, and I had strength to run through a
line of rifle fire over barbed wire covered by a hedge, and managed to
get out of range, and then I fell for want of water. I had just about
two teaspoonfuls in my bottle; then I went on struggling my way through
hedges to a railway line. When I got through I saw a man of the Royal
Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. I managed to carry him about half
a mile and found water; then he was as happy as if he were not wounded.
I stuck to him although he was heavy and I was feeling weak and tired.
I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I
slipped and we both fell. I had a look back, and could see the fire
mountains high. I then saw one of my own regiment, and with the help
of two Frenchmen we soon got the Irishman on a shutter to a house and
dressed him. We got him away from the village, which was being shelled,
and then met a company of Cameronian Highlanders and handed him over to
them: _Pte. G. Kay, of the Royal Scots_.
Anchored!
“We’re in for it,” says I to Tommy Gledhill, my chum. “Anything’s
better than lying here,” said he. “Anyhow, it will warm us up just as
well as brandy, and it’ll help a few more Germans to a place where
they’ll not be bothered with chills.” Sure enough, it was as hot as
anyone could wish it to be. The Germans were in their best fighting
form. They came right up to where we were posted, stopping every few
yards to fire into us. Then they came for us with the bayonet, and
there was as nice a set-to in the muggy downpour as you could ask for.
It was ugly work while it lasted. In the soaked ground it was difficult
enough to keep a foothold, but if you want a really tough job just try
a little bayonet exercise with a heavy German dancing around you trying
to jab a bayonet into you if you should happen to slip in the mud.
That’ll give you an idea of what we came through. “Anchored!” We don’t
like to be called that at any time, but that morning we were proud when
the brigadier called us the old “Stick-in-the-Muds,” and I dare say
if it hadn’t been for the fact that some of us caught the wheeze of
anchoring ourselves at least a foot deep in the mud we might have been
swept away. As it was, it was the Germans who were swept away, and you
might say that they were properly rolled in blood and mud, for when any
of them went down in that fight they were a sight for sore eyes, or I’m
a horse marine: _A Private of the Grenadier Guards_.