It was on Passchendaele Ridge in 1917. Jerry had been giving us a hot
time with his heavies. Just before daybreak our telephone line went
west and we could not get through to our O.P.
I was detailed to go out and repair the line with a young Cockney from
Hackney. He had only been with us a few days and it was his first time
up the line.
We had mended one break when shells dropped all round us. When I got
to my feet, I saw my pal lying several feet away. I escaped with a few
splinters and shock. I dragged my chum to a shell-hole which was full
of water and found he was badly hit about the shoulder, chest, and leg.
I dressed him as best I possibly could, when, _bang_, a shell seemed
to drop right on us and something came hurtling into our hole with a
splash.
It turned out to be a duckboard. I propped my chum against it to stop
him slipping back into the water. After a few minutes he opened his
eyes, and though in terrible pain, smiled and said, "Lummy, Jeff, old
Jerry ain't so bad, after all. He has given me a nice souvenir to take
to Blighty and now he has sent me a raft to cross the Pond on." Then he
became unconscious.
It was now daybreak and quiet. I pulled him out of the hole and went
and repaired the line. We got him away all right, but I never heard
from him. I only hope he pulled through: he showed pluck.--_Signaller
H. Jeffrey (late Royal Artillery), 13 Bright Road, Luton, Chatham,
Kent._