The Commanding Officer of a Territorial battalion was wounded in both
hands during the third battle of Gaza in 1917. He had much service to
his credit, was a lieutenant-colonel of over two years' standing, had
been wounded twice before, and held the D.S.O.
He pluckily remained with his unit for thirty-six hours. Then, worn
out with lack of sleep, pain, and loss of blood, and filled with
disappointment at having to leave his battalion still in the fight, he
trudged back to the field ambulance.
His sufferings, which had aged his appearance, and the Tommy's tunic
which he wore in action, apparently misled a party of 10th London men
whom he passed. They looked sympathetically at him, and one said, "Poor
old blighter, _'e ought never to 'ave been called up_."--_Captain J.
Finn, M.C., Constitutional Club, W.C.2._
"Shoo-Shoo-Shooting"
There were no proper trenches in front of Armentières in early December
1914, and a machine gun section was doing its best to build an
emplacement and cover. It was in the charge of a young Londoner who in
times of excitement stuttered badly.
Not being satisfied with the position of one sandbag, he hopped over
those already in place, and in full view of Jerry (it was daylight
too), began to adjust the sandbag that displeased him.
Jerry immediately turned a machine gun on him, but the young officer
finished his work, and then stood up.
Looking towards Jerry as the section yelled to him to come down,
he stuttered angrily. "I b-b-be-lieve the bli-bli-blighters are
shoo-shoo-shoo-shoo-ting at me." At that moment someone grabbed his
legs and pulled him down. It was a fine example of cool nerve.--_T. D.,
Victoria, S.W.1._
Ancient Britons?--No!
It happened late in 1917 in Tank Avenue, just on the left of
Monchy-le-Preux. It was a foul night of rain, wind, sleet, and
whizz-bangs.
My battalion had just been relieved, and we were making our way out as
best we could down the miry communication trench. Every now and again
we had to halt and press ourselves against the trench side to allow a
straggling working party of the K.R.R.s to pass up into the line.
Shells were falling all over the place, and suddenly Fritz dropped one
right into the trench a few bays away from where I was.
I hurried down and found two of the working party lying on the
duckboards. They were both wounded, and one of them had his tunic
ripped off him by the force of the explosion. What with his tattered
uniform--and what remained of it--and his face and bare chest smothered
in mud, he was a comical though pathetic sight. He still clung to his
bundle of pickets he had been carrying and he sat up and looked round
with a puzzled expression.
One of our sergeants--a rather officious fellow--pushed himself forward.
"Who are you?" he asked. "K.R.R.s?"
"'Course," retorted the half-naked Cockney. "Oo d'ye fink we
was--Ancient Britons?"--_E. Gordon Petrie (late Cameron Highlanders),
"Hunky-Dory," Demesne Road, Wallington, Surrey._