Lance-Corporal W. Bird, of the 1st Battalion Norfolk Regiment, who was
also wounded at Ypres, recounted the following incident to me. Its
central figure is a sergeant of his own regiment, and it commences in
those first vivid days of the war, when the Germans were swarming over
the border. A company of ragged Chasseurs d'Afrique had burst through
a village. Some limped and were blood-stained; all breathed heavily in
great gasps, and they were plastered with mud and haggard for want of
food and sleep.
"It's all up, Mother Vinot," shouted the corporal, a burly Alsatian, to
a shivering old creature outside the village _débit_. "The Boches are
upon us."
Hobbling into the wine-shop, the old woman bade her grandson hasten
the loading of the bullock wagon. He was a tall, weedy lad fresh from
school. "They won't hurt us, _petite gran'mère_," said he. He lifted
his belt, displaying the thick butt of a revolver he had taken from a
dead hussar lying under his horse on the roadside. "I will protect
both you and the English milady, _nom de pipe_. These are great times
for men."
The English milady huddled closer to the fire. She had only left
Brussels on the previous day; the wagon on which she had travelled had
broken down in the mud. While his grandmother hid their last barrel of
cognac under the flooring, Jean busied himself with the bullock wagon.
It was soon loaded, for their household effects were not extensive.
Clambering into the vehicle, they sat their bullocks ambling through
the deserted street. Here and there lay groups of dead soldiers; over
the bodies the bullocks picked their way carefully. The roar of the
cannon and the ear-splitting crack of the rifles had now ceased. The
Germans were advancing cautiously upon the village.
The boy urged the unwilling beasts with his goad. Inside the wagon, the
English milady shuddered in horror at the spectacle of the stark bodies
around them, and at last she broke into sobs. The crone, who sat at the
shafts of the vehicle telling her beads, looked curiously at her. The
lady was speaking.
"Last night I dreamed he was dead," she cried, in French. "I fear to
look at these poor creatures; I fear I may find him among them."
At that moment there was a rustle in the hedge bordering the road. The
boy caught glimpse of rifles levelled at his companions.
"They're spies!" shouted a voice in English. "Shoot the wretches down.
It's another of the German dodges."
"Let the poor devils go," cried another voice. "I've seen the old woman
in the village before, and the boy ties a good trout fly. I know them
both. Don't shoot."
But one of the soldiers had levelled his rifle and fired. "There's one
of their dirty officers huddling in the wagon behind the old woman,"
cried he. Already, however, Jean had the wagon turned, and the bullet
missed its mark. Thrusting his goad deeply into the bullocks, Jean
speedily made the maddened animals trot forward. There was no more
firing. Very soon the little party had turned by the _curé's_ house at
the bend of the road, and were in the village again.
"The Germans have us both ways," said Jean, entering the tiny courtyard
of the _curé_. "We'd best leave our load here and hide. There is a
famous place in Père Vincent's hayloft." Bidding them climb the ladder
to the loft, Jean stood on guard behind the open gates.
There was a clatter of hoofs along the road, the glint of lances,
and a number of Uhlans dashed at a mad gallop through the village.
At the bend of the road they halted. Something had aroused their
suspicion. One of them dismounted and began to examine his horse's
shoes. His three companions, meanwhile, trotted back to the wine-shop
and proceeded to batter the door down. Jean glanced first at the men
entering his home; then at the dismounted soldier. His mind was soon
made up. There were only four of them, and of those he could give good
account. Taking careful aim with his weapon, he pressed the trigger.
Like a stone the Uhlan dropped beside his horse. Hearing the firing,
his comrades rushed from the wine-shop, mounted their horses, and
clattered down the street towards the boy. Jean stepped out from his
hiding-place and stood full in front of them. His first shot struck the
leading man's horse. The animal stumbled and flung its rider white and
still on the road. Following hard at his heels, the second horseman
came down with a crash, the legs of his steed tangled in the reins of
the first. Jean pointed his weapon for the third time. But there was
no report--he had fired his last cartridge! The remaining Uhlan, with
a fierce curse, lowered his lance and charged towards the lad.
Jean never knew exactly what happened after that. He remembered hearing
men hard by cheering in a strange tongue; he remembered, too, the
firing of rifles behind him; but after that he could recollect no more.
Milady, who had been a governess in Brussels, crouched in the hay with
the old woman and shuddered. They heard the galloping of the horses,
the curses of the soldiers, and the firing, but they understood nothing
of its significance. Then came the thunder of a shell bursting beneath
the loft. The place took fire and the loose straw sent up clouds of
smoke which helped make the terrified women and their position more
terrible. They heard one sharp crackle of musketry; then dead silence.
This was broken at length by footsteps advancing over the courtyard.
They halted cautiously at the threshold of the barn, and then made a
bold dash. Seeing nobody, the men halted again.
"I heard voices here," the first man shouted to a comrade. "Somebody is
hiding hereabouts--some of the Huns."
Seizing the rungs of the ladder in one hand, he clambered like a cat
towards the loft.
"Let the pigs burn," growled his comrade after him.
The women were hidden in the straw, but the soldier saw it move, and
poised his bayonet over milady's breast.
"Come out of that," he shouted. In astonishment at hearing the sound of
her own tongue, the Englishwoman moved her hands from her eyes.
"Save me!" she implored, and held her hands appealingly towards the
soldier. And then Mme. Vinot was the witness of a strange scene. For
the soldier, with a startled exclamation, flung down his rifle, seized
the woman in his arms, kissed her, and spoke her name in endearing
terms. It was her sweetheart, and twice that day, all unknowingly, he
had saved her life! Lance-Corporal Bird was present at the sergeant's
wedding some months afterwards, and vouches for the happy ending of the
story.