There was a young chap of the Irish Rifles. He was kneeling beside
a wounded man of the Gloucester, keeping off the Germans, who were
circling round like carrion birds. He had been hit himself, but was
gamely firing at the enemy as fast as his wounded arm would permit. We
went to his assistance, but they were both worn-out when we reached
them, and, greatly to our regret, we had to leave them to be picked
up by the Red Cross people. That was hard; but if you tried to pick
up every wounded man you saw you wouldn’t be much use as a fighter,
and as we were under urgent orders to take up a position from which to
cover the retreat, we had no time for sentiment. They knew that, and
they weren’t the men to ask us to risk the safety of the army for them.
“Never mind,” the rifleman said, with a faint smile on a ghastly face,
“the sisters will pick us up when it’s all over, but if they don’t,
sure, then we’ve only got once to die, and it’s the grand fight we
had, anyhow. What more could soldiers ask for?” When we came back again
one of the men was there sure enough--stone dead; but his mate had
gone, and whether it was the Germans or the Red Cross people that got
him I wouldn’t care to say: _A Trooper of the Irish Dragoons_.