After Soissons, I was lying on the field badly wounded. Near by was a
young fellow of the Northamptonshire Regiment. Standing over him was
a German infantryman holding a water-bottle to his lips and trying to
soothe him. The wounded man was delirious, and kept calling, “Mother
are you there?” all the time. The German seemed to understand, for he
passed his hand gently over the feverish brow and caressed the poor lad
as tenderly as any woman might have done. Death came at last, and as
the soul of the wounded man passed to its last account I saw the German
trying to hide his tears: _Corpl. Houston, Seaforth Highlanders_.
Driven Out!
The burning of the poor villagers’ houses was bad enough to see, but
the sight of the poor women and children fleeing before the Germans
would break a man’s heart. The poor people did not know what to do
or where to go. Some of them came to us asking questions, but we, of
course, could do nothing, for we did not understand their language and
did not know what they were saying. They were in a bad way, and the
sight of some of them and their misery brought the tears to the eyes of
many of the men of my regiment: _Pte. Rossiter, Royal Irish Rifles_.