Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 48107-h.htm or 48107-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/48107/pg48107-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/48107/48107-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/inlineofbattle00woodrich
IN THE LINE OF BATTLE
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_ |
| |
| Soldiers’ Stories of the War |
| |
| Edited by WALTER WOOD |
| |
| With 20 full-page Illustrations by A. C. MICHAEL. |
| |
| _Second Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. net_ |
| |
| |
| “Unchallengeably the best war budget of its kind that we have |
| had.”--_The Referee._ |
| |
| “A collection of absolutely authentic accounts by privates |
| and non-commissioned officers.... In the language in which |
| these fighters couch their experiences and opinions we see a |
| great simplicity and directness of observation and recital, so |
| admirable that _one page of such writing is worth all the folios |
| of the war experts and correspondents_, not to say romancers and |
| publicists.”--_The Athenæum._ |
| |
| “It is a stimulating and hopeful record, full of the real |
| atmosphere of the war, and Mr. Wood has done a serviceable thing |
| in producing it.”--_Daily Chronicle._ |
| |
| “The human side, the naked horror and simple glory of actual |
| conflict, is what Mr. Wood’s soldiers are concerned with, and the |
| stories they tell give a clearer picture of this side of war than |
| can be found in any other form.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._ |
| |
| “All Mr. Wood’s papers make us feel, if that is possible, prouder |
| of the British sailor and soldier.”--_Evening News._ |
| |
| “A very real and deeply affecting book, and the editor has done |
| a valuable work in collecting these poignant, odd, whimsical, |
| terrible stories together.”--_Westminster Gazette._ |
| |
| “No man who boasts a heart, least of all any man of young limbs, |
| will read these soldiers’ simple stories without a quickening |
| of the pulse. They are at once a great stimulus and a great |
| memorial.”--_Daily Telegraph._ |
| |
| “It is a noble tribute to the unassuming heroism of the |
| British soldier, and brings one close to the realities of |
| war.”--_Spectator._ |
| |
| “This is a collection of absolutely authentic stories narrated |
| by non-commissioned officers and privates who have taken part in |
| the present war, and who relate their experiences.”--_War Office |
| Times._ |
| |
| “Mr. Wood has done his work uncommonly well; his book is alive |
| with interest, and has the permanent value that must always |
| belong to such first-hand testimony.”--_Bookman._ |
| |
| |
| LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. |
| |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration:
[_Frontispiece._
“SEVERAL VILLAGES ... HAVE BEEN DESTROYED IN THE INTERESTS OF OUR
DEFENCE.... MY HEART BLEEDS WHEN ... I THINK OF THE NUMBER OF INNOCENT
PERSONS WHO HAVE LOST THEIR HOMES AND THEIR GOODS.”--THE KAISER, IN A
TELEGRAM TO PRESIDENT WILSON.]
IN THE LINE OF BATTLE
Soldiers’ Stories of the War
Edited by
WALTER WOOD
Author of
“Men of the North Sea,” “Survivors’ Tales of Great Events,”
“North Sea Fishers and Fighters,” etc
Illustrated from Official Photographs
London
Chapman & Hall, Ltd.
1916
Printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
Brunswick St., Stamford St., S.E.,
and Bungay Suffolk.
INTRODUCTION
The narratives in this volume, which is a companion to my _Soldiers’
Stories of the War_, are told on exactly the same lines as those which
were adopted for that collection. There was a personal interview to
get the teller’s own tale; then the writing, the object being to act
as the soldier’s other self; and finally the submission to him of the
typescript, so that he could revise and become responsible for the
completed work.
In dealing with these records I have tried to be a faithful interpreter
or reproducer of a tale that has been told to me. I have invited a
man to tell his story as it came into his mind, and to look upon me
simply as a means of putting it into concrete and coherent form, and
as a medium between himself and the reader. The greatest difficulty
that had to be overcome was a narrator’s reluctance to speak of his own
achievements, though he never failed to wax enthusiastic when telling
of the doings of his comrades. Nothing has left a deeper impression
on my mind than the generous praise which a gunner, say, has bestowed
upon the infantry, and the blessings that the infantry have invoked
upon the gunners. Never in any of Great Britain’s wars has there been
such an exhibition of universal esprit de corps as we have witnessed in
this stupendous conflict between civilisation and freedom and cultured
barbarism and tyranny.
Nothing could have been more encouraging to me as compiler and
editor of these true tales than the generous praise that was given to
the companion volume. I am grateful to all my critics, who, without
exception, so far as I know, welcomed and accepted the work for what it
professed to be--an honest contribution on behalf of soldiers to the
history of the war.
I set out to do a certain thing--to act as pilot to members of a
wondrous band who found themselves in unknown waters, and I succeeded
past my utmost expectations. I am proud to think that any act of mine
has put on record the doings of patriotic men who have fought so
nobly for their country; and thankful to feel that I have been the
means of getting for his relatives and friends and all the rest of us
the experiences of more than one fine fellow who since I saw him has
answered the roll-call for the last time.
WALTER WOOD.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
HOW TROOPER POTTS WON THE V.C. ON BURNT HILL 1
TROOPER FREDERICK WILLIAM OWEN POTTS, 1/1st Berkshire
Yeomanry (T.F.).
CHAPTER II
A PRISONER OF WAR IN GERMANY 16
CORPORAL OLIVER H. BLAZE, 1st Battalion Scots Guards.
CHAPTER III
GASSED NEAR HILL 60 33
LANCE-CORPORAL R. G. SIMMINS, 8th Battalion Canadian
Infantry, 90th Winnipeg Rifles.
CHAPTER IV
A LINESMAN IN GALLIPOLI 43
PRIVATE JOHN FRANK GRAY, 5th Battalion Wiltshire
Regiment.
CHAPTER V
AN ANZAC’S ADVENTURES 62
TROOPER RUPERT HENDERSON, 6th Australian Light
Horse.
CHAPTER VI
”IMPERISHABLE GLORY” FOR THE KENSINGTONS 80
----, 13th (Kensington) Battalion London Regiment.
CHAPTER VII
TEN MONTHS IN THE FIGHTING-LINE 94
PRIVATE FREDERICK WOODS, 1st Battalion Royal Irish
Fusiliers.
CHAPTER VIII
A GUNNER AT THE DARDANELLES 114
GUNNER JOHN EVANS, 92nd Battery Royal Field Artillery.
CHAPTER IX
THE “FLOOD” 130
CORPORAL GUY SILK, 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers.
CHAPTER X
THE BELGIANS’ FIGHT WITH GERMAN HOSTS 133
SOLDAT FRANÇOIS ROMBOUTS, 8th Regiment of the Line,
Belgian Army.
CHAPTER XI
A BLINDED PRISONER OF THE TURKS 148
PRIVATE DAVID MELLING, 1/8th Battalion Lancashire
Fusiliers.
CHAPTER XII
HOW THE “FORMIDABLE” WAS LOST 160
WILLIAM EDWARD FRANCIS, Stoker.
CHAPTER XIII
A TROOPER’S TALE 171
TROOPER NOTLEY, 5th Dragoon Guards.
CHAPTER XIV
A DIARIST UNDER FIRE 180
PRIVATE CHARLES HILLS, 2nd Battalion Australian
Infantry.
CHAPTER XV
A STRETCHER-BEARER AT LOOS 196
PRIVATE HAROLD EDWARDS, D.C.M., 1st Battalion South
Staffordshire Regiment.
CHAPTER XVI
A FUSILIER IN FRANCE 205
PRIVATE FRED. KNOTT, Royal Fusiliers.
CHAPTER XVII
THE DAILY ROUND 216
A Subaltern’s Diary.
CHAPTER XVIII
SAVING THE SOLDIER 230
DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL, C.M.G.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face page_
“SEVERAL VILLAGES ... HAVE BEEN DESTROYED IN
THE INTERESTS OF OUR DEFENCE....” _Frontispiece_
CHOCOLATE HILL 4
THE WONDERFUL WATER SUPPLY AT THE DARDANELLES 12
A BRITISH SOLDIER HELPING A WOUNDED GERMAN
PRISONER INTO A CONVEYANCE 24
BRITISH SOLDIERS CHARGING THROUGH A SMOKE-CLOUD 33
A VIEW OF “V” BEACH, TAKEN FROM THE “RIVER CLYDE” 43
ANZACS AT SUVLA BAY 62
THE DARDANELLES: CARRYING WOUNDED TO A HOSPITAL SHIP 74
FIELD ARTILLERY NEAR YPRES 80
ROYAL IRISH FUSILIERS IN TRENCHES IN GALLIPOLI 94
“W” BEACH, SHOWING CAPE HELLAS 114
DEVASTATION IN BELGIUM: RUINS IN THE FLOODS OF YSER 133
TURKISH PRISONERS MARCHING DOWN A GULLY IN GALLIPOLI 158
BRITISH CAVALRY AT THE FRONT 172
AUSTRALIANS LANDING UNDER FIRE 180
A BRITISH SOLDIER WRITING IN HIS DUG-OUT 188
ZIG-ZAG TRENCHES CAPTURED FROM THE GERMANS 196
STREET NAMES FOR TRENCHES 208
A BRITISH SUBALTERN IN HIS TRENCH, WEARING HIS GAS-HELMET 218
BACK TO PRIMEVAL LIFE 234
IN THE LINE OF BATTLE
CHAPTER I
HOW TROOPER POTTS WON THE V.C. ON BURNT HILL
[As part of the operations in Gallipoli, it was decided to bombard and
attack a very strongly fortified Turkish position near Suvla Bay--a
sector stretching from Hill 70 to Hill 112. The frontal attack was a
desperate enterprise, as the Turks had dug themselves in up to the
neck in two lines of trenches of exceptional strength. The attack was
made on the afternoon of August 21st, 1915, after a bombardment by
battleships and heavy land batteries. It was in the course of this
advance that the teller of this story, Trooper Frederick William Owen
Potts, of the 1/1st Berkshire Yeomanry (Territorial Force), was struck
down, and later performed the unparalleled act for which he was awarded
the Victoria Cross. For nearly fifty hours Trooper Potts remained under
the Turkish trenches with a severely wounded and helpless comrade,
“although he could himself have returned to safety,” says the official
record. Finally the trooper, in the extraordinary manner which he now
describes, saved his comrade’s life. Trooper Potts is only twenty-two
years old, and is the first Yeoman to win the most coveted of all
distinctions.]
I saw a good deal of the Turks before we came to grips with them near
Suvla Bay. I had gone out to Egypt with my regiment, the Berkshire
Yeomanry, and for about four months we were doing garrison work and
escort work for Turks who had been captured in Gallipoli and the
Dardanelles and sent as prisoners of war to Egypt. Our place was not
far from Cairo. I was greatly struck by the size and physique of the
Turks. There were some very fine big men amongst them--in fact, I
should think the average height was close on six feet.
We had taken our horses out to Egypt with us, and all our work in that
country was done with them; but as the weeks went by, and no call came
to us for active service, we became disappointed, and got into the
way of singing a song which the poet of the regiment had specially
composed, and of which the finish of every verse was the line--
“The men that nobody wants,”
this meaning that there was no use for us as cavalry in the fighting
area. But when the four months had gone, the order suddenly came for
us to go to Gallipoli. By that time we had got acclimatised, a point
we appreciated later, as the heat was intense and the flies were very
troublesome.
From Alexandria we sailed in a transport, which occupied four days in
reaching Gallipoli. Here we were transhipped to trawlers and barges,
and immediately found ourselves in the thick of one of the most
tremendous bombardments the world has ever known. Battleships were
firing their big guns, which made a terrific noise, and there was
other continual firing of every known sort. We were very lucky in our
landing, because we escaped some of the heaviest of the gun-fire. The
Turks could see us, though we had no sight of them, and whenever a
cluster of us was spotted, a shell came crashing over. Thus we had our
baptism of fire at the very start.
We were in an extraordinarily difficult country, and whatever we needed
in the way of food and drink we had to carry with us--even the water.
Immense numbers of tins had been filled from the Nile and taken to
Gallipoli in barges, and this was the water we used for drinking
purposes, as well as water which was condensed from the sea, and kept
in big tanks on the shore. Every drop of water we needed had to be
fetched from the shore, and this work proved about the hardest and
most dangerous of any we had to do after landing and taking up our
position on a hill. Several of our chaps were knocked over in this
water-fetching work.
While we were at this place we were employed in making roads from Suvla
Bay to Anzac, and hard work it was, because the country was all rocks.
We had landed light, without blankets or waterproofs, so that we felt
the intense cold of the nights very much.
We had a week of this sort of thing, under fire all the time. I think
it was on a Sunday we landed, and a week later we heard that we were
to take part in the attack on Hill 70, or, as we called it, because
of its appearance, Burnt Hill. There were immense quantities of a
horrible sort of scrub on it, and a great deal of this stuff had been
fired and charred by gun-fire. I little knew then how close and long an
acquaintance I was to make with the scrub on Hill 70.
It was about five o’clock in the evening when the great news came. We
were to be ready at seven, and ready we were, glad to be in it. We did
not know much, but we understood that we were to take our places in
some reserve trenches. Night comes quickly in those regions, and when
the day had gone we moved round to Anzac, marching along the roads
which we had partially made. We reached Anzac at about two o’clock in
the morning, in pitch darkness.
We had a pick and two shovels to four men, and took it in turn to carry
them. Each man also carried two hundred rounds of ammunition, so that
we were pretty well laden. When we reached Anzac Cove we moved in
right under the cliffs, which go sheer down to the sea; but there is
practically no tide, so that the beach is safe. The only way to reach
the shore was to go in single file down a narrow, twisting pathway.
We were on the beach till about two o’clock in the afternoon, when we
were ordered to be ready with our packs, and we went up the cliff,
again in single file, forming up when we reached the top. Then we went
a mile or so along the road we had marched over the night before--all
part of the scheme of operations, I take it. Then we cut across to our
right and saw a plain called Salt Lake, where we watched a division
going into action under heavy shrapnel fire.
We were now in the thick of the awful country which I was to know so
well. The surface was all sand and shrubs, and the great peculiarity
of the shrubs was that they were very much like our holly trees at
home, though the leaves were not so big, but far more prickly. These
shrubs were about three feet high, and they were everywhere; but they
did not provide any real cover. There were also immense numbers of long
creepers and grass, and a lot of dust and dirt. The heat was fearful,
so that you can easily understand how hard it was to get along when
we were on the move. These obstacles proved disastrous to many of our
chaps when they got into the zone of fire, for the shrapnel set the
shrubs ablaze. This meant that many a brave fellow who was hit during
the fighting on Hill 70 fell among the burning furze and was burned to
death where he lay.
[Illustration:
_To face p. 4._
CHOCOLATE HILL.]
As we were waiting for our turn, we could see the other chaps picking
their way through this burning stuff, and charging on towards the
Turkish trenches. When our own turn came, the scrub was burning less
fiercely, and to some extent we were able to choose our way and avoid
the blazing patches. We ran whenever we got the chance, making short
rushes; but when we got into the real zone of fire, we never stopped
until we were under the protection of Chocolate Hill.
For half an hour we rested at the foot of this hill. From our position
we could not see the Turks, who were entrenched over the top; but their
snipers were out and bothering us a good deal. It was impossible to
see these snipers, because they hid themselves most cunningly in the
bushes, and had their faces and rifles painted the same colour as the
surrounding objects. However, we levelled up matters by sending out our
own sniping parties.
We were on the move again as soon as we had got our breath back. We
still understood, as we moved to the left of Chocolate Hill, that we
were going to occupy reserve trenches. We went through a field of ripe
wheat. About two yards in front of me was a mate of mine, Reginald
West. I saw him struck in the thigh by a sniper’s bullet, which went
in as big as a pea, and came out the size of a five-shilling piece. It
was an explosive bullet, one of many that were used against us by the
Turks, under their German masters. In a sense West was lucky, because
when he was struck down he fell right on the edge of a dug-out, and I
heard one of the men shout, “Roll over, mate! Roll over! You’ll drop
right in here!” And he did.
The rest of us went on, though in the advance we lost a number of men.
Some were killed outright; some were killed by shells and bullets after
they had fallen wounded, and some had to lie where they had fallen and
do the best they could. We pushed ahead till we struck Hill 70 again.
When we got to the reserve trenches I asked a chap how far away the
Turks were, and he answered, “About a thousand yards,” but I don’t
think it was as much as that.
Now we began to ascend Hill 70 in short spurts, halting from time to
time. We had fairly good cover, because the scrub was not on fire,
though several parts had been burnt out. During one of these halts we
were ordered to fix bayonets.
We had found shelter in a bit of a gulley, and were pretty well mixed
up with other regiments--the Borders, Dorsets, and so on. We first got
the idea that we were going to charge from an officer near us; but he
was knocked out--with a broken arm, I believe--before the charge came
off. He was just giving us the wheeze about the coming charge when a
bullet struck him.
How did the charge begin? Well, an officer shouted, as far as I can
recollect, “Come on, lads! We’ll give ‘em beans!” That is not exactly
according to drill-books and regulations as I know them; but it was
enough. It let the boys loose, and they simply leapt forward and went
for the Turkish trenches. It was not to be my good fortune to get into
them, however; in fact, I did not get very far after the order to
charge was given.
I had gone perhaps twenty or thirty yards when I was knocked off my
feet. I knew I was hit. I had a sort of burning sensation; but whether
I was hit in the act of jumping, or whether I jumped because I was
hit, I do not know. What I _do_ know is that I went up in the air, came
down again, and lay where I fell. I knew that I had been shot at the
top of the left thigh, the bullet going clean through and just missing
the artery and the groin by an eighth of an inch, as the doctor told me
later.
Utterly helpless, I lay there for about three-quarters of an hour,
while the boys rushed round me and scattered in the charge. This
happened about a quarter of a mile from the top of the hill. I propped
myself up on my arm and watched the boys charging.
I heard later, from a man who was with me in hospital at Malta--he
had been struck deaf and dumb, for the time being, amongst other
things--that the boys got into the Turkish third trench and that the
Turks bolted. He told me that when they reached this third trench there
were only seventeen Berkshire boys left to hold it. The enemy seemed to
get wind of this; then it looked as if all the Turkish army was going
for the seventeen, and they had no alternative but to clear out.
After the charge I saw this handful come back down the hill, quite
close to where I was lying. I had fallen in a sort of little thicket, a
cluster of the awful scrub which was like holly, but much worse. I was
thankful for it, however, because it gave me a bit of shelter and hid
me from view.
I had been lying there about half an hour when I heard a noise near
me and saw that a poor wounded chap, a trooper of the Berkshires, was
crawling towards me. I recognised him as a fellow-townsman.
“Is that you, Andrews?” I asked.
He simply answered “Yes.” That was all he could get out.
“I’m jolly pleased you’ve come,” I said, and Andrews crawled as close
as he could get, and we lay there, perfectly still, for about ten
minutes. Andrews had been shot through the groin, a very dangerous
wound, and he was suffering terribly and losing a great deal of blood.
We had been together for a few minutes when another trooper--a stranger
to me--crawled up to our hiding-place. He had a wound in the leg. We
were so cramped for space under the thicket, that Andrews had to shift
as best he could, to make room for the newcomer. That simple act of
mercy saved his life, for the stranger had not been with us more than
ten minutes when a bullet went through both his legs and mortally
wounded him. He kept on crying for water; but we had not a drop amongst
the three of us, and could not do anything to quench his awful thirst.
That fearful afternoon passed slowly, with its grizzling heat and
constant fighting, and the night came quickly. The night hours brought
us neither comfort nor security, for a full moon shone, making the
countryside as light as day. The cold was intense. The stranger was
practically unconscious and kept moving about, which made our position
worse, because every time he moved the Turks banged at us.
I was lying absolutely as flat as I could, with my face buried in the
dirt, for the bullets were peppering the ground all around us, and one
of them actually grazed my left ear--you can see the scar it has made,
just over the top. This wound covered my face with blood. Was I scared
or frightened? I can honestly say that I was not. I had got beyond that
stage, and almost as a matter of course I calmly noted the details of
everything that happened.
Throughout the whole of that unspeakable night this poor Bucks Hussar
chap hung on. He kept muttering, “Water! Water!” But we could not give
him any. When the end came he simply lay down and died right away, and
his dead body stayed with us, for we could neither get away nor move
him.
During the whole of the next day we lay in our hiding-place, suffering
indescribably. The sun, thirst, hunger, and our wounds, all added to
our pain. In our desperation we picked bits off the stalks of the
shrubs and tried to suck them; but we got no relief in that way.
The whole of the day went somehow--with such slowness that it seemed
as if it would never end. It was impossible to sleep--fighting was
going on all the time, and the noise was terrific. We could not see
anything of our boys, and we knew that it was impossible for any
stretcher-bearers to get through to us, because we were a long way
up the hill and no stretcher-bearers could venture out under such a
terrible fire.
Night came again at last, and Andrews and myself decided to shift, if
it was humanly possible to do so, because it was certain death from
thirst and hunger to remain where we were, even if we escaped from
bullets. So I began to move away by crawling, and Andrews followed
as best he could. I would crawl a little way and wait till Andrews,
poor fellow, could crawl up to me again. We wriggled like snakes,
absolutely flat on the ground and with our faces buried in the
stifling dirt.
We managed to wriggle about three hundred yards that night--as near as
I can judge. Starting at about a quarter past six, as soon as the day
was done, it was about three in the morning when we decided to rest, so
that if we had really done three hundred yards we had crawled at the
rate of only thirty-three yards an hour!
A great number of rifles were lying about--weapons which had been cast
aside in the charge, or had belonged to fallen soldiers; but most of
them were quite out of working order, because they were clogged up with
dust and dirt. I tried many of them, and at last found one that seemed
to be in good working order, and to my joy I came across about fifty
rounds of ammunition. Another serviceable rifle was found, so that
Andrews and myself were filled with a new hope.
“We’ll die like Britons, at any rate!” said Andrews. “We’ll give a good
account of ourselves before we go!” And I agreed with him.
We were now some distance from the Turks, and I was terribly anxious
to shoot at them; but Andrews was more cautious. “If you fire they’ll
discover us, and we shall be done for!” he said. Then we shook hands
fervently, because we both believed that this was the last of us, and
I know that in thought we both went back to our very early days and
offered up our silent prayers to God.
We had managed to crawl to a bit of shelter which was given by some
burnt-out scrub, and here we tried to snatch some sleep, for we were
both worn out. We went to sleep, for the simple reason that we could
not keep awake; but I suddenly awoke, because the cold was intense and
I was nearly frozen. Luckily there were a lot of empty sandbags lying
about, and I got two or three of these and put them on top of us; but
they were really no protection from the bitter air.
When the morning came we made a move, and for the first time we were
able to get some water; but only by taking the water-bottles from the
poor chaps who had been knocked out.
Then we crept back to our shelter, finding immense relief from drinking
the water we had got, though it was quite warm and was, I fancy, from
the Nile.
We slept, or tried to sleep, there for the rest of that night, and
stayed in the place till next morning. We must have been in what is
called “dead ground,” a region which cannot be seen or touched by
either side, and so it proved to be, for in the early morning there was
a real battle and the bullets were singing right over our heads.
“There’s more lead flying about than there was yesterday,” said
Andrews; and really some of the bullets were splashing quite close to
us--within six feet, I think, though there were not many that came so
near.
Andrews was bleeding terribly--every time he moved he bled; but I did
the best I could for him with my iodine--I dressed him with mine, and
he dressed me with his, and splendid stuff it is. Though we had nothing
to eat we did not really feel hungry now--we were past the eating
stage. I was very lucky in having four cigarettes and some matches and
I risked a smoke, the sweetest I ever had in my life.
Again we stuck the awful day through.
I was terribly anxious to move and get out of it all at any cost;
but still Andrews was very cautious. “No, we won’t try till it gets
dark,” he said. I felt that he was right, and so we waited, as
patiently as we could, for the night. Three or four yards from us
was an inviting-looking bush, and we crawled towards it, thinking it
would help us to get away and give us shelter; but at the end of our
adventure we discovered that we had done no more than crawl to the
bush, crawl round it, and get back to our original hiding-place; so we
decided to give up the attempt to get away just then.
When the third night on the hill came we were fairly desperate, knowing
that something would have to be done if we meant to live, and that
certain death awaited us where we were. We had nothing to eat, and the
only drink was the water, which was frightful stuff--I believe it was
Nile water which had been brought. But though it was, we were thankful
to have it. The water was warm, because of the heat, and was about the
colour of wine.
We did not for a moment suppose that we should live to reach the
British lines, which we believed to be not far away; but we risked
everything on the effort, and in the moonlight we began to wriggle off.
We had managed to get no more than half a dozen yards when Andrews had
to give it up. I myself, though I was the stronger and better of the
two, could scarcely crawl. Every movement was a torture and a misery,
because of the thorns that stuck into us from the horrible scrub.
We had kept the sandbags, and with my help Andrews managed to get them
over his arms and up to his shoulders. I fastened them with the pieces
of string they have, and these gave him a good deal of protection,
though the thorns got through and punished us cruelly. I was picking
them out of my hands for three weeks afterwards.
[Illustration:
_To face p. 12._
THE WONDERFUL WATER SUPPLY AT THE DARDANELLES.]
Having crawled these half-dozen yards, we gave up the attempt
altogether, and did not know what to do. We could see a cluster of
trees not far away, about a hundred yards, and there was one that
looked fairly tall.
“If we can get to that tree,” said Andrews, “I could lie there, if I
had some water, and perhaps you could strike some of our chaps and
bring help.” I had little hope from such an effort as that. Then
Andrews unselfishly urged me to look after myself; but, of course, I
would not dream of leaving him. I offered to carry him, and I tried,
but I was far too weak.
What in the world was to be done? How were we to get out of this deadly
place? There seemed no earthly hope of escape, when, literally like an
inspiration, we thought we saw a way out.
Just near us was an ordinary entrenching shovel, which had been
dropped, or had belonged to some poor chap who had fallen--I can’t say
which, but there it was. I crawled up and got hold of it, and before
we quite knew what was happening, Andrews was resting on it, and I was
doing my best to drag him out of danger.
I cannot say whose idea this was, but it is quite likely that Andrews
thought of it first. He sat on the shovel as best he could--he was
not fastened to it--with his legs crossed, the wounded leg over the
sound one, and he put his hands back and clasped my wrists as I sat
on the ground behind and hauled away at the handle. Several times he
came off, or the shovel fetched away, and I soon saw that it would be
impossible to get him away in this fashion.
When we began to move the Turks opened fire on us; but I hardly cared
now about the risk of being shot, and for the first time since I had
been wounded I stood up and dragged desperately at the shovel, with
Andrews on it. I managed to get over half a dozen yards, then I was
forced to lie down and rest. Andrews needed a rest just as badly as I
did, for he was utterly shaken and suffered greatly.
We started again at about a quarter past six, as soon as the night
came, and for more than three mortal hours we made this strange journey
down the hillside; and at last, with real thankfulness, we reached the
bottom and came to a bit of a wood. Sweet beyond expression it was to
feel that I could walk upright, and that I was near the British lines.
This knowledge came to me suddenly when there rang through the night
the command: “Halt!”
I obeyed--glorious it was to hear that challenge in my native tongue,
after what we had gone through. Then this good English sentry said,
“Come up and be recognised!” not quite according to the regulation
challenge, but good enough--and he had seen us quite clearly in the
moonshine.
Up I went, and found myself face to face with the sentry, whose rifle
was presented ready for use, and whose bayonet gleamed in the cold
light.
“What are you doing?” said the sentry. “Are you burying the dead?”
I saw that he was sentry over a trench, and I went to the top of it and
leaned over the parapet and said, “Can you give me a hand?”
“What’s up?” said the sentry, who did not seem to realise what had
actually happened--and how could he, in such a strange affair?
“I’ve got a chap out here wounded,” I told him, “and I’ve dragged him
down the hill on a shovel.”
The sentry seemed to understand like a flash. He walked up to the
trench, and when I had made myself clear, three or four chaps bustled
round and got a blanket, and I led them to the spot where I had left
Andrews lying on the ground. We lifted him off the shovel, put him on
the blanket, and carried him to the trench. These men were, I think,
Inniskilling Fusiliers, and they did everything for us that human
kindness could suggest. They gave me some rum and bully beef and
biscuit, and it was about the most delightful meal I ever had in my
life, because I was famishing and I was safe, with Andrews, after those
dreadful hours on the hillside, which seemed as if they would never end.
When we had rested and pulled round a bit, we were put on stretchers
and carried to the nearest dressing-station. Afterwards we were sent to
Malta, where Andrews is, I believe, still in hospital.
The granting of the Victoria Cross for what I had done came as a
complete surprise to me, because it never struck me that I had done
more than any other British soldier would have done for a comrade.
I never lost heart during the time I was lying on Hill 70. All the old
things came clearly up in my mind, and many an old prayer was uttered,
Andrews joining in. We never lost hope that some way out of our peril
would be found--and it seemed as if our prayers had been answered by
giving us this inspiration of the shovel.