[6] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
original sources.
"ADVENTURES OF A DESPATCH RIDER"
_An Oxford Man With the Motorcyclists_
_Told by Capt. W. H. L. Watson_
This young Oxford student at the outbreak of the War was in
London to begin his work in the British Museum. "At 6:45 P.M., on
Saturday, July 25th, 1914, Alec and I determined to take part in the
Austro-Serbian War. I remember the exact minute," he says. They were
certain Armageddon was coming. He went straight to Scotland Yard and
joined the Despatch Riders with several of his fellow students. He
then began his daring adventures carrying despatches for the British
Army in Northern France. He rode through the battle of Mons and in
the thrilling pursuit that lead to the Aisne. His experiences teem
with exciting incidents of those never-to-be-forgotten days. The
thrill of the charge, the depression of retreat, the elation of
outwitting a clever enemy and all the little incidents of heroism,
self-sacrifice and comradeship that have become commonplaces in the
daily lives of the British Tommies, are most interestingly described
in this Oxford man's account of "Adventures of a Despatch Rider" by
permission of his publishers, _Dodd, Mead and Company_.
[7] I--STORIES OF THE SIGNAL OFFICE IN NORTHERN FRANCE
It had been a melancholy day, full of rain and doubting news. Those of
us who were not "out" were strolling up and down the platform arranging
the order of cakes from home and trying to gather from the sound of
the gunning and intermittent visits to the Signal Office what was
happening.
Some one had been told that the old 15th was being hard pressed. Each
of us regretted loudly that we had not been attached to it, though our
hearts spoke differently. Despatch riders have muddled thoughts. There
is a longing for the excitement of danger and a very earnest desire to
keep away from it.
The C.O. walked on to the platform hurriedly, and in a minute or two
I was off. It was lucky that the road was covered with unholy grease,
that the light was bad and there was transport on the road--for it is
not good for a despatch rider to think too much of what is before him.
My instructions were to report to the general and make myself useful.
I was also cheerfully informed that the H.Q. of the 15th were under a
robust shell-fire. Little parties of sad-looking wounded that I passed,
the noise of the guns, and the evil dusk heartened me.
I rode into Festubert, which was full of noise, and, very hastily
dismounting, put my motorcycle under the cover of an arch and reported
to the general. He was sitting at a table in the stuffy room of a
particularly dirty tavern. At the far end a fat and frightened woman
was crooning to her child. Beside her sat a wrinkled, leathery old man
with bandaged head. He had wandered into the street, and he had been
cut about by shrapnel. The few wits he had ever possessed were gone,
and he gave every few seconds little croaks of hate. Three telephone
operators were working with strained faces at their highest speed. The
windows had been smashed by shrapnel, and bits of glass and things
crunched under foot. The room was full of noises--the crackle of the
telephones, the crooning of the woman, the croak of the wounded old
man, the clear and incisive tones of the general and his brigade-major,
the rattle of not too distant rifles, the booming of guns and
occasionally the terrific, overwhelming crash of a shell bursting in
the village.
I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, the Brigade Signal Officer,
and the Veterinary Officer, came up to me and talked cheerfully in
whispered tones about our friends.
There was the sharp cry of shrapnel in the street and the sudden rattle
against the whole house. The woman and child fled somewhere through a
door, followed feebly by the old man. The brigade-major persuaded the
general to work in some less unhealthy place. The telephone operators
moved. A moment's delay as the general endeavored to persuade the
brigade-major to go first, and we found ourselves under a stalwart arch
that led into the courtyard of the tavern. We lit pipes and cigarettes.
The crashes of bursting shells grew more frequent, and the general
remarked in a dry and injured tone--
"Their usual little evening shoot before putting up the shutters, I
suppose."