Chapter XVI: Stories of Sacrifice

_What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?_

W. E. HENLEY’S “For England’s Sake.”

_Soldier, soldier, if by shot and shell
They wound him, my dear lad, my sweetheart O,
He’ll lie bleeding in the rain
And call me, all in vain,
Crying for the fingers of his sweetheart O._

MAURICE HEWLETT’S “Soldier, Soldier.”

Give them a cigarette and let them grip the operating-table, and they will stick anything until they practically collapse: _Corpl. H. Stewart, Royal Army Medical Corps_.

Poor Minnie!

They have shot my greatest friend from under me--my horse Minnie, the most faithful animal in the world. God forgive them for that; I never will: _Pte. Knowles, 6th Dragoons_.

His Last Wish

I came across a young chap sitting with his back against a tree--dead, and around him, in a circle, he placed all his letters and photographs, as much as to say: “Please post these to the people concerned, as I am dying”: _A Private of the Northumberland Fusiliers_.

The Christian Way

One of our men holding his water-bottle to a wounded German was shot dead close to Mons on Sunday. Another stopped under fire to light a cigarette, when a bullet struck him on the fingers, and one hand will have to come off: _Private S. Burns_.

Asked for the Colours

In the middle of the battle a driver got wounded and asked to see the colours before he died, and he was told by an officer that the guns were his colours. He replied, “Tell the drivers to keep their eyes on their guns, because if we lose our guns we lose our colours”: _Driver W. Moore, Royal Field Artillery_.

Not a Murmur

The grandest thing to buck a man up is the way our men take their wounds. You do not hear them yelling when they are hit. You hear the words, “I’ve got it, boys. Hard luck!” It is grand to see the way they take it, a smile on their face, and not a murmur as they are carried down on the stretchers: _Pte. A. Robson, 7th Batt. Royal Fusiliers_.

Saving a Tragedy

I was fetching our bottles of water. I crept to one house. The woman tried to tell me something in French. I could not understand, so she pulled me in the next room. There was a woman just confined. She was on the point of madness. I could not do anything, so I told my officer. He sent me for the parson, and got some of us together, and we carried her, bed and all, to a safe place: _Pte. E. Smith, 2nd Worcestershire Regiment_.

Going Home!

It was wonderful how cheerful the wounded were. One poor fellow who had been shot in the head, and hit by a shrapnel bullet in the mouth--he was apparently dying--pointed out to me another man, badly wounded, remarking, “That poor bloke is going home; he will be gone before me”: _Pte. W. Webb, Royal Army Medical Corps_.

Like Jackie!

I was in a cottage in France, in the country, Tuesday night, to cook a bit of grub--we had had none all day--and while I was doing it the woman cried bitterly, as her husband was at the front, but I tried to cheer her up as best I could; she had a boy like Jackie, so I told her I was married and had a wife and child, and she cried worse still then: _Private Davies, of Ipswich_.

Lit His “Fag”

“Is there anything I can do for you, old chap?” I asked a wounded man of the Hampshires, one day. “Yes,” he answered, “you might light my fag for me. You will find matches and all in my inside pocket.” I did as he asked, and the last glimpse I caught of him he was lying out there with German shells and bullets flying all around, calmly smoking a “Gold Flake.” That spirit is characteristic of our lads: _A Private of the Grenadier Guards_.

Cheerful in Verse

I was through all the fighting, commencing with the battle of Mons, until the 9th of last month, when I got wounded. This little verse will explain a lot:

I was wounded on the 9th,
Near the River Marne.
They got me in hospital on the 13th,
On the 18th they took off my arm:

_A Corporal of the Durham Light Infantry_.

Succouring the Enemy

A lot of German wounded were moved into a wood for protection and shelter against the rain. Their own artillery opened fire, and soon all the trees were ablaze. The cries of the wounded were agonizing. A party of our men asked permission from their officers to go and carry the Germans out. They did it under heavy fire all the time. The wounded men were very grateful, and said that had it not been for our lads they would have been burned alive: _A Private of the Highland Light Infantry_.

A Splendid Corporal

Near Cambrai one dark night the British took the offensive against the Germans, who were holding a bridge spanning the canal. When our men reached an embankment running sharply down to the river several failed to secure a foothold and fell into the water. Four of the men, who were unable to swim, were in imminent danger of drowning, when Corporal Brindall, an excellent swimmer, plunged into the river and rescued all four in turn. He was clambering up the embankment himself, when a German shell exploded near him, killing him instantly: _Drummer H. Savage, 1st Batt. Royal Berks_.

A Yorkshire “Tyke”

One night in the trenches a man of the West Yorkshire Regiment took off his coat and wrapped it around a wounded chum who had to lie there until the ambulance took him away. All that night the game “tyke” stood in the trenches in his shirt-sleeves, with water up to his waist, and the temperature near to freezing-point, quietly returning the German fire. In the morning he would only own to “a bit of a chill that a cup of tea and a smoke would soon put right,” but I wasn’t surprised to learn that he had to be sent down to the base with pneumonia that afternoon. I hope he will pull through: _A Sergeant of the Liverpool Regiment_.

The Other Man!

After one of our hard fights in the Aisne, there was occasion to let the wounded lie out in the rain all night. I came on one man of the Royal Irish Fusiliers who was done for. He had a waterproof cloak over him, but near by was a man of the artillery without any covering at all. I asked the Irishman if I could do anything for him. “Nothing,” he said; “but if you would take this cloak and throw it over that poor chap there I would be so grateful. I will never pull through, but he may if he is attended to at once. Good-bye. See that the vultures don’t get me when I’m gone, will you?”: _A Private from the Aisne_.

A Costly Apple

There was a “boy” of the Connaught Rangers who made a rush out of the trenches under heavy fire to an orchard near by to get an apple for a wounded comrade who was suffering from thirst and hunger. He got the apple all right, but he got a German bullet or two in him as well on the way back, and dropped dead within fifty feet of the goal. The wounded chap had his apple brought in, after an artilleryman had been wounded in getting at it, and I hope he valued it, for it was the costliest apple I ever heard tell of bar one, and that was a long time ago: _A Private of the Highland Light Infantry_.

No Hesitation

Two of our R.A.M.C. men were bringing in a badly wounded trooper on a stretcher, when a fiendish fire was opened on them by a party of Germans posted on a hill about a mile off. Both of the bearers were hit, and though they strove manfully to keep up they collapsed from loss of blood, and the wounded man toppled over with them. A score of our men rushed out to their assistance, but some of them were shot down before they reached the stretcher. Four reached the stretcher and brought it in safely under a hellish fire. All the rest of the wounded were got in safely: _Private H. Sykes_.

Glorious Examples

One fellow had been shot in the forehead: he had been in the trenches, full of water, for six days and seven nights, and yet he said to me, “I don’t care what becomes of me. I have the satisfaction of knowing that I popped four of the Germans off before I got hit.” I made a few of them some cigarettes, and gave them water to drink, and did my best to make them comfortable. You would be surprised at the gratitude which they expressed to me. These men are glorious examples of self-sacrifice. There is no distinction of persons with the wounded out here: _Motor-driver T. Robinson, of Brighton_.

A Kindly German

After Soissons, I was lying on the field badly wounded. Near by was a young fellow of the Northamptonshire Regiment. Standing over him was a German infantryman holding a water-bottle to his lips and trying to soothe him. The wounded man was delirious, and kept calling, “Mother are you there?” all the time. The German seemed to understand, for he passed his hand gently over the feverish brow and caressed the poor lad as tenderly as any woman might have done. Death came at last, and as the soul of the wounded man passed to its last account I saw the German trying to hide his tears: _Corpl. Houston, Seaforth Highlanders_.

Driven Out!

The burning of the poor villagers’ houses was bad enough to see, but the sight of the poor women and children fleeing before the Germans would break a man’s heart. The poor people did not know what to do or where to go. Some of them came to us asking questions, but we, of course, could do nothing, for we did not understand their language and did not know what they were saying. They were in a bad way, and the sight of some of them and their misery brought the tears to the eyes of many of the men of my regiment: _Pte. Rossiter, Royal Irish Rifles_.

Cried Like Babies

The other day I stopped to assist a young lad of the West Kents who had been badly hit by a piece of shell. He hadn’t long to live, and he knew it, too. I asked him if there was any message I could take to someone at home. The poor lad’s eyes filled with tears as he answered, “I ran away from home and ’listed a year ago. Mother and dad don’t know I’m here, but you tell them from me I’m not sorry I did it.” When I told our boys afterwards about that they cried like babies, but, mind you, that is the spirit that is going to pull England through this war, and there isn’t a man of us that doesn’t think of that poor boy and his example every time we go into a fight: _Corporal Sam Haslett_.

The “Kiddies”

The worst part, to my mind, was to see the plight of the poor women and children. English people at home cannot realize what these poor creatures suffered. We used to meet them on the road utterly worn out with walking and carrying their babies and the few small things that they had. They wept with joy on seeing us. It seemed grand to be a soldier. No matter how tired we were, it was almost a free fight as to who carried the “kiddy” and the bundle, and there was always a tin or two of our “bully” to spare. We made them spare it if there wasn’t: _A Private of the Lancashire Regiment_.

Finely Done

When we were waiting for the order to go in I saw a cavalry sergeant who had been badly wounded three times and was still pegging away at it. As he was fighting I saw him go to a badly wounded corporal who was shouting to be taken out of the way of the line. The wounded sergeant bound up the other man’s wound, and then sat him on his own horse and sent him back out of the way. Then I saw the sergeant limp along on foot as best he could after his regiment to fight again. I don’t know what became of him, but I know I shall never see a finer thing as long as I live: _A Wounded Hussar_.

What McCabe Did

McCabe helped me to dress my knee wound under a hail of shells and bullets. I had been lying there for half an hour when Mac came along. “Hullo,” he said, “what’s up?” “Rip up my trousers,” I cried, “and help me to bind my knee.” While we were getting on with the job the shells started to pepper about. I said, “Clear out, Mac, you’ll get hit.” He said, “After I’ve finished with you.” He then went after the ambulance men, but it was like looking for a bushel of gold. He did not return. I then made up my mind to crawl to safety, so I discarded my rifle and equipment, and with another fellow crawled about 600 yards back through a swede field: _Corporal Erler_.

Taking the Salute

A troop train with a thousand Belgian soldiers came in. They looked terribly dirty, but awfully earnest. They seemed delighted to meet an Englishman, and always wanted to shake hands. I reckon I shook hands with a couple of hundred of them. When they saw an English officer they jumped to the salute. As they passed a major of one of the Scottish regiments who was lying on a stretcher, having been shot in the chest twice, and also other parts, they saluted him, too. The major, although he was very weak, cried to his orderly, “Hold me up. I can’t take a salute lying down.” His orderly told him he was too ill to move, but he persisted, and he was propped up, and acknowledged the salutes, with hardly sufficient strength to hold his hand to his forehead. It was a pathetic sight: _Anonymous_.

A Brave Sergeant

We were in a very hot attack in defending a bridge. The Germans poured a very destructive fire into us; we were forced to give way, and had to retire across the bridge. There was practically no shelter, and during our retirement one of our officers was severely wounded. He would undoubtedly have fallen into the hands of the enemy but for the extreme bravery of Sergeant Cropp, who, perceiving the situation, gallantly ventured on to the bridge and, seizing the wounded lieutenant, placed him on his back. Instead of risking a journey across the shot-swept bridge, he decided, encumbered as he was, to swim the canal, which he did, and swam with the wounded officer out of the line of fire and into a place of safety: _A Scots Fusilier_.

Officer and Gentleman

About three in the afternoon, just as our artillery had got up ready to cover us, the Germans found our range with artillery, and down came the “coal-boxes.” Near me was lying our brave captain mortally wounded, and as the shells burst he would occasionally open his eyes and call out--but ’twas very weak--“Stick it, Welsh, stick it.” Many of the wounded managed to crawl up and down the firing line “dishing out” ammunition we were unable to use, so our brave lads stuck at it until our artillery got into action and put “paid” to the enemy’s account. We had won! The “contemptible little army,” are we? We made them eat their words. Out in that field were strewn thousands of German dead and wounded. They even piled them up and made barricades of their dead. Toward dusk, though we were still exposed to terrible shell fire, several of our lads volunteered to collect the wounded. Many got hit in doing so. Captain Haggard died that evening, his last words being, “Stick it, Welsh!” He died as he had lived--an officer and a gentleman: _Pte. C. Derry, Welsh Regiment_.

The Spirit of Old

There is absolutely no doubt that our men are still animated by the spirit of old. I came on a couple of men of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders who had been cut off at Mons. One was badly wounded, but his companion had stuck by him all the time in a country swarming with Germans, and though they had only a few biscuits between them they managed to pull through until we picked them up. I pressed the unwounded man to tell me how they managed to get through the four days on six biscuits, but he always got angry and told me to shut up. I fancy he went without anything, and gave the biscuits to the wounded man. They were offered shelter many times by the French peasants, but they were so afraid of bringing trouble on these kind folk that they would never accept shelter. One night they lay out in the open all through a heavy downpour, though there was a house at hand where they could have had shelter. Uhlans were on the prowl, and they would not think of compromising the French people, who would have been glad to help them: _Lance-Corpl. Edmondson, Royal Irish Regiment_.

“Hallelujah!”

We had been lying in the trenches firing for all we were worth. On my right, shoulder to shoulder, were two Salvationists. I remembered them as having held a meeting with some of us chaps about a week before. As we lay there with the bullets whistling round us these two were the coolest of the whole cool lot! After we had been fighting some time we had orders to fall back, and as we were getting away from the trenches one of the Salvationists was hit and fell. His chum didn’t miss him until we had gone several hundred yards, and then he says, “Where’s ----?” calling him by name. “I must go back and fetch him!” and off he hurried, braving the hail of shot and shell. I admired his bravery so much that I offered to go with him, but he said, “No, the Lord will protect me; I’ll manage it.” So I threw myself on the ground and waited. I saw him creep along for some yards, then run to cover; creep along, and take shelter again; and, finally, having found his chum, he picked him up and made a dash for safety! How the bullets fell around him! Into the shelter of some trees he went; out again, and in once more; and when he did get into the last piece of clearing I couldn’t wait any longer, so I rushed forward to help him. Then I got hit. What do you think the brave fellow did? He just put his other arm around me and carried us both off. Darkness was fast coming on, and presently he laid us both down and found the wounds, which he bandaged up with strips which he tore from his shirt. I shall never forget that terrible night: _An Anonymous Private_.

“A Rare Good One”

Near our trenches there were a lot of wounded, and their cries for water were pitiful. In the trenches was a quiet chap of the Engineers, who could stand it no longer. He collected all the water-bottles he could lay hold of, and said he was going out. The air was thick with shell and rifle fire, and to show yourself at all was to sign your death-warrant. That chap knew it as well as we did, but that was not going to stop him. He got to the first man all right, and gave him a swig from a bottle. No sooner did he show himself than the Germans opened fire. After attending to the first man he crawled along the ground to others until he was about a quarter of a mile away from us. Then he stood up and zigzagged towards another batch of wounded, but that was the end of him. The German fire got hotter and hotter. He was hit badly, and with just a slight upward fling of his arms he dropped to earth like the hero he was. Later he was picked up with the wounded, but he was as dead as they make them out there. The wounded men, for whose sake he had risked and lost his life, thought a lot of him, and were greatly cut up at his death. One of them, who was hit so hard that he would never see another Sunday, said to me as we passed the Engineer chap, who lay with a smile on his white face, and had more bullets in him than would set a battalion of sharpshooters up in business for themselves, “He was a rare good one, he was. It’s something worth living for to have seen a deed like that, and now that I have seen it I don’t care what becomes of me.” That’s what we all felt about it: _A Corporal of the Bedfordshire Regiment_.