Crack! Crack! Crack!--and men falling with each crack. It is terrible;
we are faced with mud, misery, and despair. A German machine-gun is
taking its toll.
It seems impossible to get at the gunners, and we spend hours lying
in wait. This waiting proves too much for one of us; single-handed
he takes a chance and crawls away from my side. I keep him covered;
minutes roll by; they seem hours, days; and, as he is now out of sight,
I begin to give up hope for him, my Cockney pal.
Some instinct warns me to keep watch, and I am rewarded. I feel my eyes
start from my head as I see the approaching procession--four Germans,
hands above their heads, and my pal following, carrying the machine-gun
across his shoulders. I marvel at his courage and wonder how it was
done ... but this I am never to know. As I leap from the trench to give
him assistance I realise his number is nearly up. He is covered with
blood.
I go to relieve him of his burden, and in that moment one of the
Germans, sensing that my pal is almost out, turns on us with his
revolver. We are held at the pistol-point and I know I must make a
desperate bid to save my pal, who has done his best in an act which
saved a portion of our line.
I drop the gun and, with a quick movement, I am able to trip the
nearest German, but he is quick too and manages to stick me (and I
still carry the mark of his bayonet in my side).
The realisation I am still able to carry on, that life is sweet, holds
me up, and, with a pluck that showed his determination and Cockney
courage, my pal throws himself into a position in which he can work the
gun. _Crack!_ and _Crack!_ again: the remaining Germans are brought
down.
I am weak with loss of blood, but I am still able to drag my pal with
me, and, aided by his determination, we get through. It seems we are at
peace with the world. But, alas, when only five yards from our trenches
a shell bursts beside us; I have a stinging pain in my shoulder and
cannot move! Machine-guns and rifles are playing hell.
My pal, though mortally wounded, still tries to drag me to our trench.
He reaches the parapet ... _Zip_ ... _Zip_. The first has missed, but
the second gets him. It is a fatal shot, and, though in the greatest
agony, he manages to give me a message to his folks....
He died at my side, unrewarded by man. The stretcher-bearer told me
that he had five bullet-holes in him. He lies in France to-day, and I
owe my life to him, and again I pay homage to his memory and to him
as one of England's greatest heroes--a Valiant Son of London.--_John
Batten (late Rifleman, 13 Bn., K.R.R.C.), 50 Sussex Gardens, Hyde Park,
W.2._