McCabe helped me to dress my knee wound under a hail of shells and
bullets. I had been lying there for half an hour when Mac came along.
“Hullo,” he said, “what’s up?” “Rip up my trousers,” I cried, “and help
me to bind my knee.” While we were getting on with the job the shells
started to pepper about. I said, “Clear out, Mac, you’ll get hit.” He
said, “After I’ve finished with you.” He then went after the ambulance
men, but it was like looking for a bushel of gold. He did not return.
I then made up my mind to crawl to safety, so I discarded my rifle and
equipment, and with another fellow crawled about 600 yards back through
a swede field: _Corporal Erler_.