It was getting late when we had finished, and we had to hurry back to
the support trench. On the way, as I was going along at a quick trot,
I came head over heels over a big object and nearly impaled myself on
a spike. Apart from the smell of the cow, it was really most dangerous
lying out there at night-time, and I sent a party of men back to bury
it.
The trenches we were to take over lay just beyond the village along the
crest of a slope. The section my company was responsible for ran just
in front of three haystacks. A company extended away to our right, and
the Dorchester Regiment continued the line to our left. The officer of
the regiment we were relieving said to me: "You see those stacks--well,
I should keep clear of them; the enemy have them set." I nodded, very
tired at finding myself back in the firing-line, where we had been
almost continuously for ten days, and not particularly interested in
what the enemy had set or what they had not. In fact, as soon as I had
seen the men distributed along the trench, and had given one or two
orders about its improvement, I made straight for the centre stack,
pulled as much hay as I could out of the side of it, rolled myself up,
and went to sleep.
I was awakened by a sharp blow in the back. Looking up I saw Evans
drawing his foot back to give me a second and harder kick.
"Get up, you blithering fool," he said; "your men are out all over the
place."
I jumped to my feet, and, fastening my belt as I ran, dashed for the
trench. I owed a lot to Evans for waking me. As Evans said, the men
were all walking about outside the trench. I got them in immediately,
and was preparing to follow when I thought of my bed, and went off to
fetch it. One never knew when the next chance of leaving the trench
might come. I was bending down, gathering a good armful of hay, when
there was a report, a sensation like red-hot iron running through one,
followed by acute pain, and I pitched head-forward into the hay. I
had been hit. Very frightened and hurt, I crawled as fast as I could
round to the side farthest from the enemy and sat down. I examined my
wounds--a bullet through each leg. The shots were low down and did
not look very serious. They hurt infernally, and I made a mental note
to call the next man who said he never noticed he had been hit in the
heat of an action a liar. I examined the wounds. Were they serious
enough to warrant a visit to the field-dressing station and a possible
return to England? I hoped devoutly they were. An attempt to stand
soon satisfied me, and I fell down again, much relieved. All these
thoughts were a matter of seconds; in the meanwhile there was a good
deal going on round the stack. An enemy battery was playing round it
with high-explosive shrapnel. The shells burst first one side, then the
other, in front, behind, in all directions. The noise was deafening,
and the lead in the air was just like a hailstorm; however, it was
a stout stack, and kept me dry, though I confess I doubted getting
away alive. After a few minutes the firing stopped, and, throwing
myself on my side, I rolled as fast as I could for a support trench.
I pitched head-first into the trench and landed on the top of two
privates who were sheltering in the bottom expecting more shrapnel
over at any minute. They were not expecting me, and thought their
last hour had come when I fell on top of them. Getting our breath,
we all three cursed each other. Then, seeing I was an officer, they
became respectful. I explained I was wounded, and they helped me off
with my puttees and bound up the wounds with the first-aid bandage
which I ripped from my coat. In the meanwhile word was sent back for
stretcher-bearers. As the firing had stopped these came up immediately,
lifted me out of the trench, put me on a stretcher, and started off
with me. We had to go down a road in full view of the enemy. For some
providential reason they never fired at us, though I was about the last
wounded man to be brought down that road. Halfway down the road the
stretcher-bearers began to show signs of feeling my weight. I coaxed
them on a few more yards, but when they came to the lee of a cottage
they put me down and shook their heads; another bearer came to the
rescue, and with the extra help the party proceeded. A hundred yards
more brought us to a cottage which was being used as a field-dressing
station. The cottage was beginning to fill, and wounded men lay about
all over the floor.
"Oh, Gawd! Oh--! ----ooh!!"
"Shut up, can't yer?" a man shouted from the far corner of the room.
"I've got a 'ole in me big enough to put yer 'and in," the sufferer
explained, and began again to groan and swear.
"Got a cigarette, mate?" A man deathly pale on a stretcher held out his
hand to a comrade who was slightly wounded and standing beside him.
The latter extricated a Woodbine from a crumpled packet and passed
it down. The man on the stretcher lit the cigarette and puffed at it
phlegmatically. It was doubtful whether he would live, and though he
did not know this, he knew he must not have anything to eat or drink
for many hours.