Thomas Campbell.

Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”

In one of our rearguard actions an officer was saying to me, “I am not good enough to die yet.” He had not spoken the words before he was shot through the brain, and the man on the left had his head blown off by a shell. You know I wasn’t severely religious, but I’m inclined to be now: Pte. Watts, 4th Grenadiers.

A “Charmed Life”

I bore a charmed life. A bullet went through the elbow of my jacket, another through my equipment, and a piece of shrapnel found a resting-place in a tin of bully-beef which was on my back. I was picked up eventually during the night, nearly dead from loss of blood: A Private of the Black Watch.

The Seventh Time

I am all right, but very nearly got shot in a trench by the Germans. I got on my knees to dig a bit of earth to get comfortable when they spotted me. Then about ten shots came in quick succession. One sent my cap off. Down I got, and jolly quick. This is the seventh time I have escaped being hit: Pte. Oliver, Yorkshire Light Infantry.

Making a Hole

I was standing with a chum, watching the artillery fire. “Look at the smoke,” I said to him. A moment later a shell came screaming down, and I was knocked kicking by the suction. My chum simply said, “Lordy, look at the hole,” and then I saw I was lying on the edge of a hole made by the shell large enough to bury a horse in: Pte. J. Charley, East Surrey Regiment.

A Hero Indeed

When I got hit, I couldn’t say how long I lay there, but a chum of mine, Tommy Quaife, under a perfect hail of bullets and shells dragged me to safety and said, “Cheer up, Smiler, here’s a fag. I’m going back for Sandy (his other chum).” He never got there. Poor Tommy got a piece of shell and was buried the same night. If ever a hero lived he was one: Sergt. J. Rolfe, 2nd Batt. King’s Royal Rifles.

A Changed View

We put in some wonderfully effective shooting in the trenches, and the men find it is much easier making good hits on active service than at manoeuvres. The Germans seemed to think at first that we were as poor shots as they are, and they were awfully sick when they had to face our deadly fire for the first time: Pte. M. O’Keefe, Royal Irish Rifles.

“Oh, Bill!”

Just as I was hit, I said, “Oh, Bill, it has knocked my foot up. Pick it up for me.” He said, “It is all right. Keep still,” and he tied something round my leg to stop the blood running. Then the doctor came up. He said, “The stretchers will be up just now”; but as soon as he went away I was making for the field hospital on my hands and knees. I got so far, and was having a rest when the doctor gave me a lift: Pte. Wilde, Worcestershire Regiment.

“Hell on Earth”

About midday a German aeroplane, flying the Union Jack and the French colours, came flying down on our positions. We thought it was our own craft, but wherever she dipped the German artillery took range, and as soon as she got up out of our reach they simply poured their shells upon us. Within ten minutes we had five killed and forty-seven wounded, and a number we cannot account for. One shell came blowing my knapsack off my back, and made a hole through my waterproof sheet. It was just like hell on earth: Pte. A. Fricker, 1st Gloucestershire Regiment.

His Kilt Torn

As I was crawling on hands and knees to the base, bullets whizzed around me and shrapnel fell within a few feet. I had my kilt pierced on eight occasions. Everybody who has seen the holes in my kilt says what a marvellous escape it was. I had escaped without any additional scratch, even though I had my gun shattered to pieces in my hand: A Corporal of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

“Not Me!”

Who was going to stop with the transport? Not me! I was sent for a box of ammunition, and was carrying it on my shoulder when a shrapnel splinter struck the box and knocked me down. All our fellows thought I was dead, and one or two came running to me, but I got up all right and went back to the trenches. I had a pop at ’em with a rifle. Ever seen a shrapnel drop? A Drummer Boy of the Cheshire Regiment.

A Pat on the Ankle

I had the misfortune to have a pat on the ankle. I was placed on the tool cart, and had a ride with some others who had had a taste of German shells. One of our chaps had a narrow squeak. A bullet took his cap off, and a groove was cut through his hair, but it did not hurt him. It was just the same as if his hair was parted in the centre, for the bullet carried away the hair without hurting the scalp: Sapper McKenney, 1st Div. Royal Engineers.

Doing Well

My Dear Wife,—I hope that you have been getting my letters and postcards that I have sent to you since I have been out here. Well, dear, I am sorry to tell you I have been wounded, but it is not so serious as it might have been. I got hit in the head by a piece of shell, and the wound is getting on very nicely up to the time of writing. Do not worry yourself; we are all being treated splendidly: Pte. A. E. Bell, of the Rifle Brigade.

Blown Up!

I picked one chap up who had been shot, and asked for someone to come and help me, and the two of us were picking him up when a shell burst between us. We were blown up in the air, and turned a somersault, and it is marvellous that neither of us was hurt. The chap we were picking up was not so lucky, for he was hit a second time. However, we got him up and took him back to the ambulance. The Germans finally blew down our barricade and everything that was movable, and we retired to the trenches, three miles away: A Lance-Corporal of the Royal Marines.

Disagreeable

I have had some close shaves. Once I looked up for a second at an aeroplane flying overhead, and a couple of bullets just missed me by a hair’s-breadth. One day I was filling my water-bottle at the stream when it was shot out of my hand, and another bullet ripped into my coat and was stopped against the photos of you and the children. Last night in the trenches I dreamt I was back home again and was playing with little Gracie and telling her some stories of the fighting: Pte. Hamson, King’s Royal Rifles.

Green Fireworks

I have had the narrowest escape of my life. The horse I was riding got knocked out altogether by a shell, and while I was getting another one to put in its place a shell came and put three of us out of action. I managed to scramble out of it for about two miles, when I dropped unconscious, and the next place I found myself in was a French hospital with enough bandage round my head to make a girl a dress. You ought to see the sight of a battlefield; it is just like the Crystal Palace on a firework day but for the men and horses dropping: Driver T. Tyler, Royal Field Artillery.

Heavy Fire

The second day we were under heavy fire, and we had to retreat; but the next morning we regained the trenches. Then we came under heavy fire again, and it was at this time that I received my wound. “Have you got it, old boy?” said my mate, George Hunter. Only about ten minutes afterwards Hunter himself received in rapid succession five shots in the thigh and groin. He quickly died from hÆmorrhage, and lies buried in France. I myself had to lie upon the ground for eleven hours before I was carried to an ambulance wagon: Pte. Whitehead, Norfolk Regiment.

Dead as a Nail

The German had killed several of our fellows before I knocked him over. As they were going through a gate—“piff”—and down they went. We knew by the sound that the rifleman could not be far, and we kept looking out for him, for there were no large bodies of Germans about. At last I saw a flash coming from a tree, and I took two aims at him, and then we saw him swaying to and fro, dead as a nail, but tied with a rope to the tree: Pte. Jakeman, West Riding Regiment.

Stone Dead

We came to a wood that looked as if it had been occupied by the Germans. Sure enough, there was a sentry standing all by himself under the trees with a rifle in his hands. We were in his direct line, so he couldn’t help seeing us, but he made not the slightest sound or sign of being put out. We crept close to have a better squint at him, because there was something uncommon in the look of him, and then we saw what was the matter. The poor chap was stone dead: Corpl. Miller, Army Service Corps.

Kicked

I had the misfortune to get three bullets through my right leg. It feels just like getting a kick from a horse. It’s worse if the bullet strikes a bone, but by a bit of luck all three bullets went clean through my leg. They were from a machine gun, and it happened just after we had cleared the Germans out of a wood in order that we might put up there for the night. I was more fortunate in South Africa, when I was serving in the 5th Mounted Infantry, for then I only received a slight shell wound: Corporal F. Price.

Killed Instantly

After the battle the men rested in a deserted village where the one or two inhabitants who remained boiled some eggs for them and provided them with some refreshments. In the deserted shops enough tobacco was secured to make a cigarette each for most of the Cheshires, but they had only one box of matches between the whole battalion. A number of the Cheshires were sitting in a cottage having some tea. The door was open, and a drummer-boy was sitting near. Suddenly a bullet whizzed just past his face and struck a corporal, who was at that moment drinking tea from a cup, killing him instantly! Private Whitlow.

Waited for Them

One night, while we were lying prone behind some earthworks, we heard the sound of hoofs. For a time we could not detect the intruders, so kept quite still. Then a light flickered out in the distance, then another disclosing a party of Uhlans, who, thinking they had the country to themselves, were lighting their pipes. We allowed them to advance, joking among themselves, until they were within close range. Then we gave them a volley. Three were killed, and the remainder, very scared, galloped off: A Corporal of a Highland Regiment.

A Clover Field

I got a bullet through my shoulder that put my right arm out of action. I dropped in a clover field. The machine guns were sweeping the hill, and the bullets were cutting the clover tops about six inches above my head. I dare not move, as I would have been riddled, and the whole of the line had gone on. I lay there over two hours trying to get a bandage on my wound. When I heard the guns becoming silent, I jumped up and ran behind a haystack, where I found thirty more men all smothered with blood. We bandaged one another up as best we could, and lay there until dark, when a doctor arrived, and those alive were removed with stretchers. We got some hot tea, the first drop for five days: Pte. Cundell, Northamptonshire Regiment.

A Busy Marksman

When I found I could not walk I gave it up. Just after I got my first view of the Germans. They were coming out of a wood 400 yards away all in a heap together, so I thought as I was done for I would get a bit of my own back, and so I started pumping a bit of lead into them. I stuck there for about three-quarters of an hour, and fired all my own ammunition and a lot belonging to two more wounded men who were close to me—about 300 rounds altogether, and as it was such a good target I guess I accounted for a good lot of them. Then I suddenly discovered I could walk, and so I set off to get back. I had to walk about 150 yards in the open, with shrapnel bursting abound me all the way: Private G. A. Turner.

Bits of Shrapnel

I was wounded by shrapnel. When the shell burst in the air about 300 bullets flew in all directions. I was hit on the right shoulder. At first it did not hurt, and I continued to fight for about an hour. Then another shell burst, and I got a small wound on my left shoulder and a bullet through my left arm. It was in the forearm, and it came out just above the back of the elbow, and it fractured the bone. I have been under X-rays, and I am pleased to say there is nothing left in either shoulder, but there are little bits of shrapnel left in the elbow: Pte. W. Struthers, Northumberland Fusiliers.

In the Eye

While looking over the top of the trench a shell burst in front, and something hit me in the eye. It seemed like a blow from a sledgehammer, and down I went. When I came to about an hour after I found our chaps had beaten the enemy off, though the shells still came over. I had a bandage round my head, also a terrible aching. To improve matters rain started falling heavily, but I could not be moved till daybreak. I was then taken to the nearest field hospital, had my wound bathed and dressed, and then was moved by motor ambulance to another field hospital about ten miles away. I stayed there a day, and again motored some distance to a town, and from there came by rail to this hospital, the train journey taking thirty hours: Sergt. Guest, Black Watch.

“’Nuf Said”

I had a bullet taken out of my leg yesterday, and I shall have to have my own back. You see, we were in the field, and the Germans were in the bush, and our officer told us to retire for a few yards, as he could see better cover from the enemy’s shot and shell. The first man got up and got back safely. Your humble was No. 2. I got up to go, and one of the Germans took a penalty. “’Nuf said!” Final score—One, nil. But, you see, we always play a return match, and it will then be my turn for both points. The Germans are a very big set of fellows, taking them on the whole; but what rifle shots! If the majority of them were in an empty house, they would not be able to hit it, because the bullets would go up the chimney. You may say, “They were good enough to hit you.” But that was more by good luck than by good management: Private J. B. Coates.

Made Comfortable

It was about six o’clock in the morning when I received my souvenir. It was almost impossible for a wounded man to get back from the firing line without being riddled. I stayed in the trench until five in the evening. The noise was deafening, shrapnel bursting all over the place and raining bullets. I determined to try and get back to have my wound dressed, and I crawled back somehow, rolled down on to a road, crawled along again for a few hundred yards, and presently got in touch with some stretcher-bearers, who carried me to a doctor. I with many others lay in a barn for two days, and the shells from the enemy’s big guns burst unpleasantly near the hospital the whole time. After a two days’ ride in cattle trucks we reached a good hospital, where we were made comfortable: Pte. G. Sims, 1st Batt. South Wales Border Regiment.

Couldn’t Move

I was really fascinated by the shells, and was not really thinking of anything at all. Suddenly a shell burst over my head and it got me right in the back. I could feel my horse getting lower and lower; I put my hand behind me and felt a lot of hot wet. I wondered if I could get him over the ditch, but just before I got to it he rolled over into it with me. My troop sergeant came and asked me if I could get up. I said, “No, mate, I can’t move; I’ll have to stop here.” Then back came the trumpeter with Captain ——, and he asked me the same thing. If I couldn’t get on a spare horse they would have to leave me there. I said, “Very well, sir, I’ll stop. You had better clear out.” I crawled along the ditch to get out of the way of the shells, which were bursting a long time after my squadron had gone to cover. I lay there about four hours in a semi-conscious state, and when I came round I found I had buried my head in the mud trying to get out of the way of the shells: A Lance-Corporal of Hussars.

“Flying All Round”

The bullets and shells were flying all round, and did not cease until after dark. Then was my only chance to get out. I crawled on my hands and knees to a little inn, and there my wounds were dressed. To-day since I have been in hospital shrapnel has been bursting all round, but the hospital was not touched except for one bullet which struck a window. The bullet that wounded me went into one breast pocket and came out of the other, and in its course it passed through your photo, making a hole in the breast. What a strange coincidence! It then passed through my watch and struck a large clasp knife, smashing it to pieces and driving it through my pocket: Sergt. E. W. Turner, Royal West Kent Regiment.

Got Away

I got an awful wound in the left hip. A shell burst in the trenches close to me, killing five of our chaps; so I had a lucky get off. I had to lie in the trench wounded all day, as the battle was so fierce they could not take me to cover. A few days before this happened I and another of our chaps were captured by some Germans. They took everything I had, even my watch and chain. The escort took us to a barn for the night. We laid down and made out as if we were asleep. We could hear them talking, and they touched us, but we did not move, so they lay down themselves and soon dropped off to sleep. There were eleven of us altogether. Then we thought they were all right and sound asleep, so I seized a German rifle next to me, which was fully loaded, and I touched my mate and we both moved slyly away. I was determined to shoot the first German that moved and make a run for it; but we got away all right and slept the night in a wood: Pte. Evenden, 1st Coldstream Guards.

“Got Me, Too!”

“Come on now, lads,” said our officer, and we went running on as hard as we could. We had got to take the hill, you see, or smash the Germans that were on it. At last we got quite near—not 150 yards from the trenches. I and two pals of mine and two others got behind a hedge and started to blaze away. We lost our sick feeling then. There was one chap got hit in the face with a shrapnel bullet. “Hurt, Bill?” I said to him. “Good luck to the old regiment,” said he. Then he rolled over on his back. There was a grey German helmet over the side of the trench with a rifle under it. I let that German have a bullet all to himself. I saw his helmet roll back and his rifle fly up. Then I got on my knees to bandage up a pal, and just as I moved there was a smash on my side. They’d got me, too, and I rolled over and thought I was done for: Pte. S. Smith, 1st Warwickshire Regiment.

A Passing Shell

One day I was in front of my horses with my back to the enemy, just putting on my nosebags, when a shell from somewhere fell between the horses and put the whole six on the ground. I was pulled up in the air by my horse, and he dropped on his back dead. The wheel-horses were struggling, and my wheel-driver was lying dead with his face blown away. I did not get touched, but no sooner did the devils see that their shells were effective than they opened fire with the whole lot of their big guns, twelve in all, and I don’t know how many machine guns. The din was horrible, shells screaming and whistling around me, and the pop-pop-pop of the Maxims. I ran round to the gun and tried to get it unlimbered, but the horses were struggling in the wheel harness and I could not move it. Then I felt a twitch in my arm. I saw blood on my sleeve, and the hole where the bullet went in. The use of my arm was gone. I did not know what to do. I dropped down and crawled out of the firing line. Another fellow came along with a wound in his hand, and we sat there talking together till we were picked up by an ambulance: Driver G. Chiswell, Royal Horse Artillery.

Stuck to Him

I was told to go back to the farmhouse and cut the horses loose. I did so. Then God answered my prayer, and I had strength to run through a line of rifle fire over barbed wire covered by a hedge, and managed to get out of range, and then I fell for want of water. I had just about two teaspoonfuls in my bottle; then I went on struggling my way through hedges to a railway line. When I got through I saw a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water; then he was as happy as if he were not wounded. I stuck to him although he was heavy and I was feeling weak and tired. I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I slipped and we both fell. I had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. I then saw one of my own regiment, and with the help of two Frenchmen we soon got the Irishman on a shutter to a house and dressed him. We got him away from the village, which was being shelled, and then met a company of Cameronian Highlanders and handed him over to them: Pte. G. Kay, of the Royal Scots.

Anchored!

“We’re in for it,” says I to Tommy Gledhill, my chum. “Anything’s better than lying here,” said he. “Anyhow, it will warm us up just as well as brandy, and it’ll help a few more Germans to a place where they’ll not be bothered with chills.” Sure enough, it was as hot as anyone could wish it to be. The Germans were in their best fighting form. They came right up to where we were posted, stopping every few yards to fire into us. Then they came for us with the bayonet, and there was as nice a set-to in the muggy downpour as you could ask for. It was ugly work while it lasted. In the soaked ground it was difficult enough to keep a foothold, but if you want a really tough job just try a little bayonet exercise with a heavy German dancing around you trying to jab a bayonet into you if you should happen to slip in the mud. That’ll give you an idea of what we came through. “Anchored!” We don’t like to be called that at any time, but that morning we were proud when the brigadier called us the old “Stick-in-the-Muds,” and I dare say if it hadn’t been for the fact that some of us caught the wheeze of anchoring ourselves at least a foot deep in the mud we might have been swept away. As it was, it was the Germans who were swept away, and you might say that they were properly rolled in blood and mud, for when any of them went down in that fight they were a sight for sore eyes, or I’m a horse marine: A Private of the Grenadier Guards.

Carted to Hospital

We had not marched more than 500 yards, and got to the outskirts of the town, when we heard a cavalry patrol coming towards us, the officers speaking in French. Our captain immediately challenged in French, and we got no reply. The captain then realized they were Germans, and the order came, “Fire!” The German officers dashed forward and seized the muzzles of the front-rank rifles a second before we had the order “Fire!” and a proper mÊlÉe took place. A German slashed one of our chaps’ head nearly off. All of them (Germans) were wiped out in a few seconds. After that we fired volleys as they charged down on us, and they never got within 50 yards of us. They brought a big gun, and then it was a perfect hell. The gun was only 400 yards away, and was blazing shrapnel into us. Five times we silenced it. It was hell all night. I was shot, and carted off to hospital. My rifle stopped the bullet, and saved my life, or I should have got it in the chest: A Guardsman, at Mons.