Part 8

Uhlans or Hussars

Now, directly we see the Uhlans or the Prussian Hussars we make for them. We have galloped for a mile to get at them. Once they drew us on to the fire of their infantry. We were only two hundred yards away when they fired on us, but at the pace we were going very few were hit. At one time we were in line, and then in _échelon_, and after a short hand-to-hand fight many surrendered, whilst others made off, the machine guns accounting for many. The German cavalry have excellent mounts, and the horses appear to be well trained. Somehow the men haven’t got the same grit as our chaps. When they hear our yells as we get into the stride, and they see the glint of our swords, they turn pale, and if it wasn’t for their officers they would bolt each time: _A Cavalryman of General de Lisle’s Brigade_.

Soon be Better

I was in the firing line, and my mate next to me had one of his fingers shot off and a bullet through his head. How I got hit, I was bandaging his head up. I was caught in the neck just below the jaw, and the bullet came out of my mouth. It knocked all my teeth out on the left-hand side, and went through my tongue and lip. I ran about a mile and a half before I could get it done up. The doctor said I was a very lucky chap to be alive. I can hardly speak or eat. Dear mother, do not let this upset you. I shall soon be better: _Corpl. Emery, Royal Lancashires_.

In Luck!

We were guarding a road where it was expected they would retreat; and they did. The first lot that came along was a Maxim limber. I accounted for the driver about 400 yards away, off the left shoulder, and someone else accounted for his mate, but still the horses came galloping along towards our ranks, so I thought I would try my arm at stopping them. I did, and got well repaid, for I took them into a farm close by, lifted the German wounded off, and went through his kit. I found a clean change of washing--badly needed, for we had not had a change since we left Chelsea--and something more: a bottle of champagne, three loaves of bread, six pots of jam, and a rabbit; so you can bet I backed a winner: _Private J. Stearn_.

Mighty Cool

Both the French and the British troops display marvellous coolness under fire, but I think the biscuit for coolness ought to go to the battalion of infantry of the French line which we found eating its breakfast by the roadside under a heavy German fire last week. In our own regiment it’s not unusual to see men playing cards under fire while waiting for the order to advance. I know of a case where one of our chaps was just going to win the trick when the Germans sent along a shell that hit every man of the card party, killing one and wounding three. When one was being taken off on a stretcher he called out, “It was the Germans won that trick”: _Private R. Duffy_.

Three Times

I have had occasion to thank God three times for as many escapes from death. The first was when we were forced back by artillery fire. A shell fell right under my horse, but failed to explode, being probably what is called an over-timed shell. Anyway, it was an escape! The next time was when we were shelled out of a village. My horse was grazed by a fragment of shrapnel and lamed, and a sharpshooter missed me, but the bullet went through my rifle-bucket and flattened itself on the nozzle of my rifle. The third time was when we had a most trying time in a village and were bombarded by eight German guns. The houses were demolished like packs of cards, but Providence looked after us, and after six hours of mental agony we had to retire one by one across a pontoon bridge; the other bridge had been blown up by the Germans: _A British Cavalryman_.

A Marvellous Escape

I was posted in a house, with about twelve others, firing on the enemy, when the house was shelled, and fell in on us. It was a marvellous escape for all of us. I can just remember falling through the roof; but I am more than pleased to tell you I was not hurt--only shaken up a bit. Two days after we had another go: then the shells were bursting all round us; but we managed to get over that with very little loss. We had another go about a week later. My company was ordered to go in a wood to try and capture some German snipers. No sooner had we entered the wood when the bullets started singing all round us. I had one go right through my cap, and it cut my hair; I have still got the hat, and if I am spared I am going to bring it home with me as a memento: _Pte. Marsh, 1st Bedfordshire Regiment_.

Warm Work

The warmest bit of work I was ever in was when I was injured. Some seven or eight of us and about the same number of Hussars were on patrol in a village. We had dismounted, and were talking over matters when quite unexpectedly some shrapnel shells burst over our heads and brought down some of the cottages. Our officer hurried up to us and ordered us to mount and retire. When we had all mounted he shouted, “Gallop away; every man for himself!” I just remember being hit in the left thigh first. At the same moment the old mare seemed to falter a little. The enemy had our range to a yard, and again and again the shells burst among and above us, bringing some of the fellows down, man and horse. Then something struck me in the right hip, but we kept on, and after five or ten minutes’ ride we came on our own regiment dismounted for action. I think about seven or eight of us got through: _A Private of the 12th Lancers_.

“Breath-stoppers”

There was a farmhouse up the hill, and from this a Maxim gun was pouring out a continuous stream of little “breath-stoppers.” The British fixed bayonets and charged the house. On the farm were found about a score of the enemy, who made absolutely no resistance. On the contrary they laughed, and were thankful it was all over and that they were safe. On searching the bushes it was found that several of the enemy had taken refuge--some were dead and others wounded. One feigned having been shot, but after being carried down the hill by a British soldier and finding he was safe, he was all right. He confirms the stories that have come to hand from many sources that the Germans fear the British bayonet: _Pte. V. Wells, Worcestershire Regiment_.

Ghostly!

One night we were lying quietly in some woods when we heard the rattle of hoofs all along the road making enough noise to wake the whole dead in all the graveyards of the world. There was a regiment of the Kaiser’s pets, the Uhlans, coming along as lively as larks on a summer morning. We waited for them at the bend of the road, just close to the cemetery, and when we crashed into them I think they imagined we were ghosts. Very tough we were, to be sure, and a ghost that feels for your ribs with a lance at midnight is an ugly customer to deal with. Those chaps didn’t half howl with rage and fear when we went into them, and as soon as they could turn their horses they were off down the road like blue murder. We captured half of them, and cut up the rest: _Sergt. Diamond, of the Lancers_.

Blue with Lead

There is no doubt about the personal bravery of the Germans. I saw a file of them coming down a slight hillock, and twenty or so were hit and toppled down over each other, exactly the same as ninepins. The wonderful thing is that any of us came out of it alive. As I looked up from the trenches, the sky was blue with flying lead. After the fighting had gone on for five hours a bullet passed through the lobe of my left ear, and, after scarring the back of my neck, tore a piece off my coat collar, which was up at the time. The same bullet killed the man behind me. I felt myself growing faint, and gave my name and the name of my mother to my mate next to me, and then I seem to have fainted. When I recovered consciousness my mate was dead: _A Sergeant of the South Lancashire Regiment_.

Don’t Mind!

It was butchers’ work. We just rained shells on the German gunners until we were deaf and choking. I don’t think a gun on the position could have been sold for scrap iron after we had finished, and the German gunners would be just odd pieces of clothing and bits of accoutrement. It seems swanky to say so, but once you get over the first shock you’ll go on chewing biscuits or tobacco when the shells are bursting all round. You don’t seem to mind it any more than smoking in a hailstorm. Then you get pulled up with a jerk when your mate on the left curls up in a heap. War is rotten, but you can even get used to working in a candle-factory. We hated smells more than we did the Germans: _An Artilleryman_.

Not Much Left

One night after a very hard day in the trenches, when we were wet to the skin, we had lighted fires to dry our tunics, and were at it when we heard firing along our front, and then the Germans came at us like madmen. We had to tackle them in our shirt-sleeves. It was mainly bayonet work, and hard work at that. They were well supported by cavalry, who tried to ride us down in the dark, but we held our ground until reinforcements came, and then we drove them off with a fine rush of our cavalry and infantry. At one point there was a fine race between our battalion and one of the Lancer regiments as to which should get at the Germans first. We were handicapped a bit because we hadn’t horses, but we won in the end, and charged right into the German hordes with the bayonet. After that the Lancers came up, and there wasn’t much left for anybody else when the Germans were done with: _Private A. Tims_.

One More River

We got our orders early in the morning to get across the Aisne, and we had to turn out early. It was very cold, and there was a heavy rain; but we got our pipes set a-going, and we were all right then. When we got up the river the fun began. There were no bridges, but the Engineers had made some rafts. Six men got on each raft, and with the burden we were up to the knees in water, and we were hauled across to the other side by a rope. When we got to the other side we got it hotter than ever. Some time after this three of us were lying in a field. I was smoking my pipe, and my chum was puffing at a cigarette. The man next my chum hadn’t a match, and wanted a light badly, and he got up to get a “touch” from my chum. As soon as he rose the poor beggar was hit with a shell and killed: _Pte. Hamish, King’s Own Scottish Borderers_.

A Revolver Story

In the mad rush through the village Dodds was also shot badly in the leg, and the poor horse, which was carrying us two, was brought down. The result was that the two of us fell helpless to the ground, and we were immediately surrounded by a crowd of Germans, who yelled and acted like a lot of savages. We saw them tearing practically every bit of clothing from one of our poor chaps who had been killed, and in my own case they stripped me of everything but my trousers and shirt. They took from me the revolver that I had taken from a German officer, and one of them was about to strip me of my shirt when a funny thing occurred. I often laugh when I think of it. When I was looking up and trying to think as little as possible about my arm, who should stand above me but the captured German officer whose guard had been killed. He said, “You are the man who took my revolver. Let me have it back instantly.” I said that I had not got it, and that one of his own men had relieved me of it. “Then come with me,” he said, “and find the man who took it, and I shall have him shot.” I went around with him as a matter of form, but I was not having any: _Lance-Corpl. M. Nolan, Royal Scots Greys_.

At the Fords

The fiercest fighting took place when the Germans tried to force a passage of the river at various points. As they came up the fords--every one of which was commanded by our artillery and bodies of picked French and British riflemen--they were galled terribly by the rifle fire, and we kept plugging them with shells as fast as we could. For a while it didn’t seem to be of any use, for as one man fell another stepped forward to take his place, but he only struggled on a few yards before falling in his turn before the hellish fire we poured on them. They had evidently made up their minds to get the pontoons into position regardless of cost in lives. The first party got theirs in position nicely, and then came rushing across like a swarm of bees rushing out of their hives to see what was wrong. A shell from a French battery hidden on our left dropped right on to them, and the thing went toppling into the river with its human load, being carried downstream under a heavy rifle and shell fire. The same thing went on the whole day, until we were sick of the sight, and mists of blood were floating before our eyes, and the cries of the drowning and dying men were always ringing in our ears. That was the daily programme as I saw it until I got hit and was sent home. Only at one point did they manage to cross the river, and then they had to face a bayonet charge from the Allies’ infantry, who rushed on them with rare joy and hurled them back into the river: _A Driver of the Royal Artillery_.

War--and Peace!

It was a jolly hot shop. A lot of the chaps of the section of ---- Battery were wounded. I cannot explain everything, only when those shells were bursting all around us and over us, and the rifle and machine-gun bullets were dropping and whizzing round us, a lot of us thought of home and other things. We had to man-handle our guns out, while the other batteries drew their fire. We had one officer left. We were complimented by the colonel, who repeated General French’s and General Gough’s orders that they were proud of us for the cool and brave way in which we worked the gun under heavy fire. Our colonel, poor old chap, nearly cried. He said: “Needless to say, lads, I am proud of you too,” and he walked away. He could not say any more. I don’t want to be in another action like that. The prettiest sight I saw out here was one hot day when we were retreating. We were all paraded, tired and hungry. We went through a little village. At the end of the village there was a little convent, and the nuns in their long grey uniform and white headdress, with crucifix hanging on their breast, were distributing wine and fruit to us as we marched through. They were lovely little women; and the way they came out went straight to my heart. They looked so good, pure, and holy. It is a picture I shall always remember: _Gunner Osborne, Royal Horse Artillery_.

Hard Going!

I was on patrol duty the other day. I can’t tell you the name of the place, but there was a chum of mine, an officer, and myself. We met five German Uhlans going down the road. They were in front of us, so we got on the grass on the side of the road and galloped right on top of them. They saw us when we were about eight yards away. They tried to get away from us, but we were into them. Our officer got the first one with his sword, and as the German fell out of the saddle the officer’s horse fell over him. That left me and my mate for the other four. Even then they would not face us. All the better for us. I got the next fellow. I put my sword right through him, and my mate did the same with another. Then we went after the other two. Both of us got up to one of them at the same time, and he got both swords through him. He did try to defend himself, for he got me on the lip with his lance and knocked two of my teeth out and took a piece out of my lip. It was not much, but he will never take any more pieces out, for he got both our swords into him. While we were trying to draw our swords out the last of the Uhlans got off his horse and tried to escape in the woods. I fell off my horse in my haste trying to get up to shoot him. All the same I shot him through the head, and he was as dead as a door-nail when I got up to him: _Private M. Ferguson_.

Connaught Rangers

The dear old Rangers have had their fair share of the fighting. Still, they’re ready for as much more as the Germans want, and it won’t be our fault if every man of ours that has gone to face his Maker with an unshriven soul hasn’t at least a dozen German trash to keep him company. There’s a lot of talk about the disloyalty of the Irish people, but, sure, when it comes to the bit, and England needs soldiers to fight for her, she knows she can rely on the Irishmen. There’s not a man in the Rangers would let any German trample on the Union Jack, no matter what his views about Home Rule and the need for making England recognize our right to nationality. The Rangers have lived up to their character as fine fighters, and they have been in some very hard scraps, you may be sure. One day we were sent to help a battery of our artillery that had got into difficulties, and was like to be carried off by the Germans. There was little time to spare, as the Germans were pressing hard on both flanks, and there was fear we might be cut off if we didn’t get on the move. We rushed at them with the bayonet at the double, and swept them away like the dust goes before the wind. It was hard fighting, and many of us got hit, but our charge made it easy for the guns to be got away in safety: _Private P. O’Hanlon_.

The Best of It

They were in front of us before we had time to entrench ourselves, and we had to make the best of what cover we could find in a country as level as Glasgow Green. Still, we made the best of it, and the Germans were far from getting it all their own way. They came on us in swarms, but we sent them back time and again, and if it had not been for their shrapnel we could have been peppering them yet. As it was, we were suddenly alive to the fact that there was a trenchful of them lying quiet just in front of us, waiting to catch us on the retreat, and it was with a demoniacal howl we received the order to charge. It was a charge with the pipes playing for all they were worth, and you could hear the roll of the kettledrums above the sound of the firing. Our men bayoneted all who could not get out of the trench, about 600 of them; and the Middlesex Regiment got in on all who ran. It was a bloody fray, no quarter being asked nor given, and as we returned to our first position we were satisfied that we had given much more than our enemies expected from us: _Pte. A. M‘Nally, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders_.

Charge of the London Scots

We took up a position allotted to us, and just when we had settled down to it a staff officer came along, and we were told we were going to have a chance of showing whether we were “show” soldiers or the real thing. We could have yelled for joy.... After covering a short distance we were sent across the fields in open order. We found some of our cavalry dismounted and holding a line of trenches quite close to the Germans. Just then we came under fire from the rifles and the machine guns. It was a bit unnerving at first, and some of our chaps didn’t like it, but we pressed steadily on, taking advantage of every bit of cover. It was a matter of lying down every few minutes, and then rushing forward a few yards, until we came right up to their trenches. As we got close the German rifle fire ceased almost, and we saw their infantry stand up in the trenches to receive our attack. I must say they struck me as being game chaps, and after what I had heard about their fear of the bayonet I was a bit surprised. We were now near enough to see the fierce glare in the eyes of the enemy as they waited for us. We gave them one great volley and then bayonets were fixed, and in a long line we charged down on their trenches. The madness of that charge I shall never forget. There was no time to think of fear or danger. We were mad drunk with the excitement. The blood was coursing in our veins at express speed, and our only thought was to close in the death-grip with the foe. Some of our boys yelled out “Scotland for ever!” and others were as silent as the grave. Their lines were strengthened at every point, and they made a great stand against us, but we were fresh, and we slashed right and left with a will. They weakened after the first shock, and gradually fell back, fighting inch by inch, but each step we forced them back, their pace became quicker, and then they broke into a mad race for life: _A Member of the London Scottish_.

Beside a Windmill

The hardest fight, in my opinion, took place around a block of farm buildings, with a windmill in the centre and cattle quietly grazing close by. There was a Franco-British force of not more than 800 bayonets in possession, and near by some British cavalry were posted. Under cover of darkness the Germans made a sudden sweep round the position, threw back the cavalry after a hot fight, and had the little force completely cut off from headquarters. They brought up artillery and began to batter down the walls of the buildings, and when they had made a big gap in the wall of the stable, a battalion of infantry made a rush for it with the bayonet. The defenders stood there quietly shooting down the Germans as they came along, but it was worse than shooting mosquitoes with automatic pistols. They hit many, but there were others behind, and they kept coming on. The defenders fired their last shot, and the building was rushed by the Germans, who simply swarmed in. Into the corner the handful of men went with their bayonets, determined to sell their lives dearly. The Germans stood at the doorway firing into them, and when only three remained standing the Germans rushed on them and overpowered them. From the stable the attack was then developed in like fashion against the rest of the buildings. One of the gables was sent crumbling down, exposing the defenders to a withering rifle fire, and then the roof toppled in with a crash, burying all that were left of the brave men beneath the ruins. Not a man in that building escaped unhurt, and of the whole force engaged in defending the position only twenty were captured by the Germans unwounded. We avenged them finely the next day: _A Private of the Warwickshire Regiment_.

Against Big Odds

Our machine gun began yapping, but its noise was little better than that of a toy terrier against a brace of bulldogs, and we didn’t count much on it. Part of the regiment lay in the trenches firing away at the Germans for all they were worth, but we didn’t count much on that either. We knew that the good old bayonet would have to be our mainstay, and so one of the companies was ordered to get ready for the rush across the intervening space. We were out in a brace of shakes, and there was no loitering by the way, for the sooner we got there the easier would it be. Half way across they found our range with the guns, and shrapnel dropped all around. Our chaps were suffering badly, and seemed to get a bit weak in their advance. Nobody could blame them, for it was awful work. The officer in command simply called out, “Remember, men, the Black Watch never wavers. Forward!” That knocked on the head any idea of wavering, and we were off again like a party of merry trippers at the beginning of the Glasgow Fair holidays. We got there in the end, but at a terrible price, and we found the Germans ready for us. We went in without a word or a cheer. After we had driven them off, they were on to us again before we had time to make the position secure. We beat them back, but they came on over and over again. The last time I think it would have gone hard with us, indeed, but for an unexpected diversion. A French aeroplane appeared overhead and began signalling to a point in our rear. This scared the Germans, who feared a big force was moving to cut them off, and they fell back. Before they had had time to find out their mistake a brigade of infantry arrived to our assistance, and then the enemy cleared off for good. That was one of the closest things for us; and it was a miracle that we pulled through against such terrible odds as were thrown against us that night: _A Private of the Black Watch_.

“Nesting” Time