Towards the end of September 1918 I was one of a party of nine men and
an officer taking part in a silent raid in the Ypres sector, a little
in front of the well-known spot called Swan and Edgar's Corner. The
raid was the outcome of an order from Headquarters demanding prisoners
for information.
Everything had been nicely arranged. We were to approach the German
line by stealth, surprise an outpost, and get back quickly to our own
trenches with the prisoners.
Owing perhaps to the wretchedness of the night--it was pouring with
rain, and intensely black--things did not work according to plan.
Instead of reaching our objective, our party became divided, and the
group that I was with got hopelessly lost. There were five of us,
including "Ginger," a Cockney.
We trod warily for about an hour, when we suddenly came up against a
barbed-wire entanglement, in the centre of which we could just make
out the figure of a solitary German. After whispered consultation, we
decided to take him prisoner, knowing that the German, having been
stationary, had not lost sense of direction and could guide us back
to our line. Noiselessly surmounting the barbed wire, we crept up to
him and in a second Ginger was on him. Pointing his bayonet in Fritz's
back, he said, "Nah, then, you blighter, show us the way 'ome."
Very coolly and without the slightest trace of fear, the German replied
in perfect English, "I suppose you mean me to lead you to the British
trenches."
"Oh!" said Ginger, "so yer speak English, do yer?"
"Yes," said the German, "I was a waiter at a restaurant in Piccadilly
before the War."
"Piccadilly, eh? You're just the feller we want. Take us as far as Swan
and Edgar's Corner."--_R. Allen (late Middlesex Regt., 41st Division),
7 Moreland Street, Finsbury Park, N.4._
"Wag's" Exhortation
On a bitterly cold night, with a thick fog settling, the Middlesex
Regt. set out on a raid on a large scale on the enemy's trenches.
Fritz must have got wind of it, for when they were about half-way
across the enemy guns opened fire and simply raked No Man's Land. The
air was alive with shrapnel and nearly two-thirds of the raiders were
casualties in no time.
Those that could tried to crawl back to our lines, but soon lost
all direction in the fog. About half a dozen of them crawled into a
shell-hole and lay there wounded or exhausted from their efforts, and
afraid to move while the bombardment continued.
Meanwhile "Wag" Bennett, a Cockney, though badly wounded, had dragged
himself out of a shell-hole, and was crawling towards what proved later
to be the enemy lines when he saw the forms of the other fellows in the
darkness. As he peered down upon them he called out, "Strike me pink!
Lyin' abaht dahn there as if you was at the 'Otel Cissle, while there's
a ruddy war agoin' on. Come on up aht of it, else you'll git us all a
bad name."
In a moment they were heartened, and they crawled out, following "Wag"
on their hands and knees and eventually regained our lines. Poor "Wag"
died soon afterwards from his wounds.--_H. Newing, 1 Park Cottages,
Straightsmouth, Greenwich, S.E.10._