Shakespeare’s “Henry V.”

Laurence Binyon’s “For the Fallen.”

When we got the order to retire I found that both my boots were full of blood. When I took them off I found that my feet had swollen and there were two big holes in my heels: Private E. Young.

A Hand-shake!

The officer said, “Baker, our time has come. Be brave, and die like a man. Good-bye.” He shook hands with me. I shall always remember the minutes that followed: A Mechanic of the English Flying Corps.

Unhurt!

I saw one of the Bays, a lance-corporal, run towards the enemy with a machine gun on his shoulders. He fired several rounds at them, and escaped without a scratch. He was promoted to the rank of sergeant for that: Pte. Fill, 5th Dragoon Guards.

What the Irish Did

I saw a handful of Irishmen throw themselves in front of a regiment of cavalry trying to cut off a battery of Horse Artillery. Not one of the poor lads got away alive, but they made the German devils pay in kind, and anyhow the artillery got away: Private A. McGillivray.

“A Regular Devil”

There was a man of the Buffs who carried a wounded chum for over a mile under German fire, but if you mentioned recommending that chap for the Cross he’d punch your head, and as he’s a regular devil the men of his regiment say as little as they can about it: A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.

“Into ’Em, Lads!”

Your son and I had fought side by side, and he missed me. The noble lad came back through fires of hell and carried me to safety. He was wounded, but not dangerously. We are all proud of that boy; he is always in the thick of it. All over the line you could hear him: “Into ’em, lads; the sooner we get through, the sooner we’ll get home”: Gunner Batey, Royal Garrison Artillery.

The Old Royals

Captain Brussell, D.S.O., who directed the movement, shouted, “Cheer up, men; you all belong to the Royal Scots. If we go down we are dying for the Old Royals.” These were his last words, for he fell immediately the charge had begun, struck down by two bullets from the Maxim: Corpl. McGlade, Royal Scots.

Gallantry

Lieutenant Geoffrey Lambton, nephew of the Earl of Durham, was in charge of us in the wood, and was directing our fire from a mound. The lieutenant had given orders to fire, had picked up a rifle, and was in the act of firing himself when he was fatally wounded by a German bullet. He knew he was done for, and he gave me his pocketbook, note-book, and sketch-book to bring back to his people: Pte. Roberts, Coldstream Guards.

Brought Him In

I saw a fine thing. We went out to take some German prisoners, when the German artillery began to shell us. We got orders to retire, and on the way poor Jack Anderson got hit in the neck. Billy Flaxington, one of our fellows, at once went out in front of a shower of bullets and brought him in. Even our officers cheered. It showed the Germans what Kirkstall Road lads are made of: Rifleman W. Sissons, of Leeds.

Skedaddled!

I heard of a corporal of the Fusiliers Brigade who held a company of Germans at bay for two hours by the old trick of firing at them from different points, and so making them think they had a crowd to face. He was getting on very well until a party of cavalry outflanked him, as you might say. As they were right on top of him there was no kidding them about his “strength,” so he skedaddled: A Driver of the Royal Field Artillery.

An Air Duel

Our artillery were unable to bring down a German aeroplane flying right above us, when suddenly a French aeroplane rose like a shot and hovered above the German machine, which was flying over our trenches from end to end. What really happened I don’t know, but shots having been exchanged between the aeroplanes, the next thing we saw was the German spinning around us as if all control had been lost. It came down with a sickening crash just beyond us: Private D. Schofield.

Under Heavy Fire

I saw the brave rescue of a private by young Lieutenant Amos. The man was named Varley, and had been shot in the liver. Although Varley was over 11 stone the young subaltern went alone to his aid, and, under very heavy fire, carried him to safety. The news of the death of Lieutenant Amos in hospital three weeks later was received with great regret by all who saw his self-sacrifice on that occasion: A Private of the 2nd King’s Own Scottish Borderers.

Never Say Die!

In camp one night a German prisoner told us about a Lancashire Fusilier who had been cut off and refused to surrender to 200 Germans. He lay on the ground and kept firing away until he hadn’t a cartridge left, and as his bayonet was gone, he stood up with folded arms while they shot him down. There was a sackful of bullets in him at least, but he killed twelve and wounded over thirty of his foes before the end came: A Private of the Coldstream Guards.

Onward and Away!

One of our lads did a daring thing last week. Somehow he got left behind, and when he found his bearings, he was right in the heart of the German lines. He put spurs to his nag, and made a dash to get through their lines. They were after him like a whirlwind, but he rode for half a mile with the whole army shooting at him. Then he found his path barred by a squadron of Uhlans. He bore madly down on them as though he intended to ride right into them, but, just when he was within a few feet of them, he swerved to the left and dashed by with only a flesh wound in the leg: Pte. H. Hill, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards.

Hit Four Times

I was pulling one of our officers out of the firing line when I got hit. He had been hit four times and he was going mad and jumping up. Well, that was giving our position away, so I held him down till we got the command to retire. Then I pulled him a good way with me, and all the others had got away from the firing line and the Germans were only fifty yards from me when the officer died. I had to leave him then and I crawled along till I came on the road. Then I met a sergeant, who took me to a church which was being used as a hospital: Pte. J. Hayden, King’s Own Royal Lancashire Regiment.

Sticking to Him

I saw an awful sight: a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. He called me for water, but I had none. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water: then he was as happy as if he was 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 then had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. “Thank God!” I said to him, “we are out of that; it’s worse than bullets”: Private G. Kay, at Mons.

“Boldly They Rode!”

Two drivers of the Royal Field Artillery brought a gun out of action with shells bursting around them. They had noticed that the gunners had been all killed, but calmly and heroically walked their horses down to the gun. One driver held the horses under a terrific fire, while the other limbered up, and the gun was brought safely back, neither men nor horses being hit. They had a miraculous escape. As we watched them from the trenches we thought it impossible for them to escape death: Corpl. Bignell, Royal Berks Regiment.

“Basted” Him!

A private of the South Staffords, named Murphy, performed a gallant deed. They were on outpost duty, and were being continually picked off by snipers. One night Murphy got a wound in the arm, and, in broad Irish, he vowed he would find the sniper. Despite the remonstrances of his officers he kept on hunting for him. Two nights later Murphy was missing from his post, but the sniping had stopped. Later on, search being made for him, he was found lying at the foot of a big tree, close beside the body of the sniper, who was pinned to the ground with Murphy’s bayonet. Murphy told the officer that when he located “the blighter” he was high up in the tree. Getting underneath he threatened to shoot, when the German dropped his rifle and scrambled down. “Then I gave him a good basting with my fists, and finished off by pinning him down”: Pte. J. Smith, 3rd Coldstream Guards.

Help the Others!

There was an English regiment out in front of us who had been getting it pretty hot all the morning, and, towards the evening, we saw a small party of their wounded coming in, among them a young subaltern, just a lad. His coat was off, and he stood bareheaded grasping his revolver in one hand. He had had the other arm blown clean away at the shoulder. Someone had dressed it temporarily for him, but he was anxious to find a doctor, and asked one of our officers where the nearest doctor was. Our officer told him where to find one, but added, “You’re not fit to go alone owing to the blood you’re losing. I shall get some of our men to help,” “Oh, I don’t require help,” he remarked, “and the poor devils have enough to do to carry themselves out of this hell.” With that he went away smiling. Help! He wouldn’t have it at any cost: Pte. A. Russell, 2nd Seaforth Highlanders.

Facing Death

Lieut. Pottinger did one of the pluckiest things that have been done in the war. He and his section were blowing up a bridge under fire. They laid the charge, and the section retired, Lieut. Pottinger and a sapper remaining behind to light the fuse. This they did, but apparently something went wrong with the detonator, and the charge did not explode. The sapper then fired ten rounds with his rifle at the charge without success. Lieut. Pottinger then said, “I’ll make the d—— thing go off,” shook hands with the sapper, and went to the bridge. There he put the muzzle of his revolver to the charge and fired all six cartridges. The charge still did not explode, and they had to leave the bridge still standing, as they were driven back by the Germans. If that charge had gone off the lieutenant would have disappeared, and he knew it as well as I do: A Royal Engineer.

“Scotland for Ever!”

The Scots Greys galloped forward with us hanging on to their stirrups, and it was a sight never to be forgotten. We were simply being dragged by the horses as they flew forward through a perfect cloud of bullets from the enemy’s Maxims. Saddles were being emptied quickly as we closed on the German lines, and tore past their Maxims, which were in the front ranks. We were on the German gunners before they knew where they were, and many of them went down in their gore, scarcely realizing that we were amongst them. Then the fray commenced in deadly earnest. The Black Watch and the Scots Greys went into it like men possessed. They fought like demons. It was our bayonets against the Germans’ swords. The German swords were no use against us. They went down in hundreds, and still the deadly work of the bayonet continued. The enemy began to waver as the carnage amongst them increased, and they soon broke and fled like rabbits: Pte. W. Morton, 1st Batt. Black Watch.

Succouring the Wounded

Three of my comrades were sent out on patrol, when they were fired on by the Germans. One got back to the trenches, though I was told two had returned. One I saw was wounded, and I volunteered to save him. I went out and was heavily fired at, but I made up my mind to get him—and you know I very seldom change that. Well, I persevered and got to one who was past human aid. I had missed the wounded one, who was lying nearer the trenches. I came back to the trench and reported the one dead. I then went out again to the wounded man and, with the help of Corporal Brown, brought him safely back: Pte. Dobson, Coldstream Guards.

Up the Hill

My regiment was acting advance guard, and my company was well in advance, when we came to a hill covered with thick brushwood. Some French cavalry were sent out to do a bit of scouting. They came back and reported the hill clear. Well, we continued our march along the road, but, just as we came under the hill, the Germans opened a terrible fire on us. The hill was entrenched from top to bottom, but the trenches were well hidden in the brush. The first line was only about ninety yards from us, and the first volley bowled over a lot of my company. There were also two companies of the Camerons attached to us. There was nothing for it but the bayonet, and before you could say “Jack Robinson” we were in their first line of trenches. They ran like rabbits. Then we got reinforced by the remainder of the regiment, and the hill was taken: A Private of the Black Watch.

Harry Lauder’s Songs

I want to let the public know how the Black Watch went through it. Well, it was a terrible bit of work, but our fellows stuck to their ground like men—the men of the bulldog breed the kiddies sing about at school. The Germans were as thick as the “Hielan” heather, and by sheer weight forced us back step by step. But we had our orders, and every man stuck to them, and until the order came not a livin’ man flinched. We stuck there popping off the Germans as fast as we could, and all around us the German shells were bursting. And in the thick of it all we were singing Harry Lauder’s latest. Aye, laddie, it was grand; all around us were the dead and dying, and every now and then the German shells would burst, and as we peppered away at ’em we sang about “Roamin’ in the gloamin’” and “The Lass of Killiecrankie”: A Corporal of the Black Watch.

Didn’t Know Defeat

After the firing had lasted for two and a half hours the order to retire was given and we retired through a wood. Then General Davis came along and said, “Turn about, men—you must save the guns at all costs.” There were only about fifty of us. We made a series of short rushes under a heavy shrapnel fire until we were up to the guns. The Germans were not more than eight hundred yards away, but we were getting very few burst shells, while we could see the Germans going down in scores. Every shot of ours told, as it was impossible to miss the enemy, who had formed from six to ten deep. We could see our artillery shells simply mowing the Germans down. Still they came on. Presently the order rang out to abandon the guns, but gallant young Lieut. Hibbert said, “No, boys; we will never let a German take a British gun!” Then our chaps raised a cheer, and resumed rapid firing. Presently we were reinforced by the South Staffords. The guns’ crews stuck to their task most heroically, and, amid cheering, we rescued the whole of them: Sergt. Meads, Royal Berks.

Duty and—Death

We occupied an exposed position on the left of the Aisne, and one night we only escaped being wiped out by mere chance, combined with as fine a deed of heroism as I have ever heard of. There was a man of the Manchester Regiment who was lying close to the German lines terribly wounded. He happened to overhear some conversation between German soldiers, and, being familiar with the language, he gathered that they intended to attack the position we held that night. In spite of his wounds he decided to set out to warn us of the danger, and he set out on the weary tramp of over five miles. He was under fire from the moment he got to his feet, but he stumbled along in spite of that, and soon got out of range. Later he ran into a patrol of Uhlans, but before they saw him he dropped to earth and shammed being dead. They passed by without a sign, and then he resumed his weary journey. By this time the strain had told on him and his wound began to bleed, marking his path towards our lines with thin red streaks. In the early morning, just half an hour before the time fixed for the German attack, he staggered into one of our advanced posts, and managed to tell his story to the officer in charge before collapsing in a heap. Thanks to the information he gave, we were ready for the Germans when they came, and beat them off; but his anxiety to warn us had cost him his life. The doctors said that the strain had been too much for him, and next day he died: A Corporal of the Northumberland Fusiliers.

“He Saved Others”

We were working in touch with a French corps on our left, and early one morning we were sent ahead to this village, which we had reason to believe was clear of the enemy. On the outskirts we questioned a French lad, but he seemed scared and ran away. We went on through the long narrow street, and just as we were in sight of the end a man dashed out from a farmhouse on the right. Immediately the rifles began to crack in front, and the poor chap fell dead before he reached us. He was one of our men, a private of the ——. We learned that he had been captured the previous day by a party of German cavalry, and had been held a prisoner at the farm, where the Germans were in ambush for us. He guessed their game, and though he knew that if he made the slightest sound they would kill him, he decided to make a dash to warn us of what was in store. He had more than a dozen bullets in him. We buried him next day with military honours. His identification disc and everything else was missing, so that we could only put over his grave the tribute, “He saved others.” There wasn’t a dry eye among us when we laid him to rest in that little village: A Corporal at the Aisne.

Heroes All

In one of our fights it was necessary to give orders to a battalion holding an exposed position to retire. Bugle-calls were no good, and the only thing was for men to risk their lives by rushing across an open space of 400 yards at least under a hellish fire. Volunteers were asked for from the Royal Irish Fusiliers, and, though every man knew that he was taking his life in his hand, the whole lot volunteered. They couldn’t all go, so they tossed for it in files, the man who couldn’t guess the way the coin came down at least once out of three times being selected. The first was a shock-headed chap who didn’t look as if there was very much in him. Ducking his head in a comic way that would have made you roar, he rushed into that blinding hail of bullets. He cleared the first 100 yards without being hit. It was a miracle how he did it, but in the second lap he was hit. He ran on for a minute or two, but staggered and fell after being hit a second time. Two more men stepped forward and dashed across while the Germans were doing their best to pink them. One picked up the wounded man and started to carry him in to the trenches, while the other ran ahead with the precious dispatch. Just as the wounded man and his mate were within a few yards of safety and we were cheering them for all we knew, there was a perfectly wicked volley from the Germans, and both of them collapsed. We dragged them in, but it was too late. Both were dead. The fourth man kept up his race against death and seemed to bear a charmed life, but in the last lap as you might say he went down like a felled ox. He was seen from the trenches to which the message was being taken, and half a dozen men ran out to his aid, the Germans renewing their fire with greater fierceness. The whole of the little party was shot down, but the wounded Fusilier still continued to crawl to the trenches with his message. Another party came out and carried him in, as well as seeing to the others. Later the battalion holding the advanced position was able to fall back in good order, but it wasn’t the least bit too soon, and had it not been for those brave chaps, who risked their lives to carry that message, there would have been a battalion less to fight our battles that day, as the Germans were working round unknown to the officer in command, and would have cut it off as sure as I’m a soldier: A Corporal of the Gloucester Regiment.