I was about the last man that got hit, and I got a proper one too. An
explosive bullet got me behind the knee, and blew away my knee and
part of thigh and shin. I lay there for a time in the forest with no
one but the Germans, who were not at all unkind to me; they gave me
water and wine to drink, and two of their Red Cross bandaged my leg up
temporarily until the ambulance came along about ten hours later. Well,
dad, if I ever prayed I prayed during that time; I was in sheer agony
the whole time. Eventually the ambulance came along and brought me back
(a prisoner, of course) to a Roman Catholic chapel, which was converted
into a temporary hospital, and I lay there till I was brought out to a
château, where two German doctors amputated my leg. They did their best
for me, but in a rough way. I was there for about ten days with hardly
any food, as they hadn’t it for themselves, only dry bread and black
coffee. Our own people released us, and took all the Germans who were
there prisoners: _Sergt. O’Dwyer, Irish Guards_.
“Archibald” a Drawback
The Germans have a topsides gun we call “Archibald.” He shoots
extraordinarily well on some days and damn badly on others. They always
get our height correct, but so far have brought nobody down. Several
machines have been hit by his shrapnel bullets and bits of his shell.
He also flies a sort of parachute which he uses to range on. The other
day we pulled his leg properly by getting between him and a bright
sun so that he could not see us properly. He sent up his parachute,
height exactly correct, fuse well timed, and proceeded to pepper it
no end, all about half a mile away from us. Once I heard his beastly
shells whistling above the noise of the engine when we came out of the
clouds, so he must have been jolly near. He has a twin brother named
“Cuthbert,” who is a large howitzer. His first shot is good, but the
remainder always miles behind. “Archibald” certainly is a drawback,
as one has to be rather careful to circumvent him, as the blighter’s
shooting has improved wonderfully: _An Army Airman_.
“Here Comes the Last”
It is amusing to hear some soldiers speak when they come down the
line, and it is becoming quite a joke to say, “Here comes the last
of such-and-such a regiment,” for invariably they claim to be the
last--all the others are cut up. It is no doubt the case that some
battalions have been severely handled. I met one of the Dorsets--but
here hangs a tale. You will know the old bookshop in Churchwallgate.
On the day I left Macclesfield I called in to wish the bookseller
good-bye. It was mentioned incidentally that he had a relative who had
been called up; I had met him on one occasion, and would I be likely
to see him again? Of course this was highly improbable, but I did
meet him. After we had retired from ---- I jumped up on a truck-load
of biscuits along with others, and said not a word, being too busy
admiring the magnificent beauty of the country in this district. At
last we talked of things in general, of the inferior rifle-shooting
of the Germans, but with respect of his shrapnel, and I mentioned
Macclesfield, hoping to be back at Christmas. A man of the Dorsets
cocked his ears. “Macclesfield! Put it there, Corporal,” he said,
holding out his hand. “Put it there. I have been weighing you up for
the last ten minutes, wondering where I had seen you before. Now I
know.” This was the man whom I never expected to see, and we met under
difficult conditions on a truck racing hell for leather through a
country which a few days later was the grave of many a German soldier:
_Pte. Dickenson, Army Service Corps_.