August 14, 1915,. 
LAND AND '^ATER. 
WOUNDED ON A BATTLEFIELD. 
By An OflScer. 
MY thigh hurt me in such a way that I could 
not move until morning had lingered into 
afternoon. Nor, indeed, dare I do so. 
For the mill with its group of adjacent 
buildings was only one hundred and fifty 
yards away, and the enemy swarmed in the mill, which 
also commanded the whole of the field behind our little 
line of shelter. Luck— or was it Providence? — had placed 
that long shallow depression just there where we lay. 
And Providence alone knows how we came alive across 
six hundred yards of naked country in face of a stream 
of bullets that never ceased. Until, leaping a ditch of 
stagnant water, the bullet tore through muscles and 
tendons and — I stopped. 
And there I lay on my face listening to the sounds 
of the battle. They were so numerous that I cannot 
enumerate them all. It was the shrapnel which caused 
the greatest dread. How narrowly it whizzed overhead 
to burst about thirty yards behind with a deafening 
bang and a flash of fire followed by the " sing-sing " 
of many bullets which buried themselves in the ground. 
Surely none could escape ! The whole sky was dotted 
.with the black smoke of high explosives and the yellow 
puffs of lyddite, each with its flash of flame. The air 
stagk of powder and the fumes of sulphur. 
More terrible — not to be forgotten — were the salvoes 
of the German batteries close in front, which fired 
almost together every three minutes. " Boom-boom- 
boom-boom "—they threatened to burst the brain, they 
caused a racking headache, these terrible tornadoes of 
sound. The machine-gun and the rifle-fire were as no- 
thing after these. The " rat-tat-tat," the " clack- 
clack," the " ping-ping " sent their messages well over- 
head to the trenches behind, and the still-advancing 
troops. Much other noise came to puzzle the ears, to 
weary the brain; the faint shouting of men, the " clink- 
clink " of the entrenching tools as the soldiers dug them- 
selves in, the great hollow explosions which resounded 
afar off amid the ruins of Aubers and Neuve Chapelle. 
And the groans, the moans, the crying of those who 
lay around. 1 will not gloss over these details of a battle- 
field. It is not a sport — there is no laughter, no humour, 
no sentiment, no relief. Let us look things squarely in 
the face — we at home — for once. The shrapnel had done 
its worst. 
I started to crawl back. The dressing-station was at 
least a mile away, but I had a message to deliver, and 
things seemed quieter. I crawled over the ground ever 
so slowly, for those riflemen in the mill were doubtless 
watching. The ploughed field seemed interminable 
— you could not see the breastwork on the other side, and 
the only landmarks were the dead and wounded men 
who lay at intervals along the direction of advance. 
Now the supports had ceased to come up. Yet suddenly, 
as happens in modern fighting, the combatants took 
inspiration, the battle burst forth afresh. One above 
another common shells and shrapnel exploded above and 
beside me, earth fell about my ears, bullets tingled past 
them. Flash after flash, as of lightning, dazzled my 
eyes. I was barely half-way across. Creeping into a deep 
shell-hole I flattened my face. Close behind the German 
howitzer double-battery boomed shatteringly. Close 
ahead the firing of our own guns was so swift, so furious, 
as to be one continuous roar. Also the rifle-fire freshened 
along the whole front — it were as though some great dry 
wood-pile had been newly kindled. The air sang songs 
with the passage of the shells, the earth trembled under 
the detonation of such huge guns as had never been used 
before — shriek and roar, Ixwam and bang and crackle. 
For half an hour I lay there, thinking the end of all 
things had come. 
Hut like some gust of human passion the holocaust 
spent itself at last. And I crawled on among the shell- 
pits and the relics of the soldiery, the rifles, the caps, 
and the helmets, the emptyings of pockets, the equip- 
ment and the haversaclcs, the wasted rounds of ammuni- 
tion, the revolvers, and the scraps of food. Past many 
an upturned waxen face and shreds of men where shells 
had done their work — and blood. A head showed itself 
above the rim of a shell-hole. " Stop, sir," it said; 
" give me your pack. I'll keep it for you. You'll never 
carry it all the way." I did not like the face or the voice. 
I had heard strange tales. There were messages and a 
marked map in my pack. I crawled on. 
And found Grant presently, lying on his back. Poor 
Grant — he, so weathered and tough, so used to fighting, 
so sure with the rifle, solid and stolid, so able as sniper 
or scout ! A bullet through the chest had left him in 
agony. And close at hand the unknown doctor, who, 
without summons had doubled across the shell-swept 
field to tend our wounded, only himself to be shot 
through the body as he knelt beside them. 
At last the friendly wall of sandbags is in sight, 
behind which our supports are sheltering. A deep and 
broad ditch or, rather, small stream of filthy water runs 
in front of this. Only at one place is it crossed by a 
single plank, all slippery, all slithery. Astride it, almost 
at right angles, blocking the way, lies the body of 
an English soldier. I make more than one attempt to 
cross. I slide to this side and that, for the plank is very 
narrow. My situation is precarious and painful, with 
the stinking muddy water beneath and the board bend- 
ing under my weight. And there is the obstacle 
at the end. But at this moment some brawny 
lad extends a hand from behind the breastwork and drags 
me within its sheher by main force. I find three officers 
of another regiment bunched up together under the 
parapet. After a rest to recover breath, I pull myself 
along the line of sandbags, through the mud, which in 
places is inches deep. Wounded men lie at intervals 
propped against the breastwork, some unconscious, some 
nursing heads or limbs, while a couple of doctors and 
stretcher-bearers are busily engaged attending to them 
as quickly as may be. 
I leave the breastwork behind, having been directed 
towards the dressing-station, and with frequent pauses 
for breath cross another field. 
I find myself in an orchard. 
It is very quiet here, save for the occasional shells 
which whistle overhead. Actually I can hear birds — 
finches, no doubt, and linnets — twittering in the apple- 
trees, which are planted very close together, after the 
French fashion, so that a kind of twilight reigns beneath. 
Yet the lengthening rays of the afternoon sun have found 
their way in here ; they fall in rich golden pools of light 
upon the green grass. 
I rest here. I am all alone. Down the middle of 
the orchard runs a long straight trench, unscathed, un- 
touched. Around it in serried ranks lies a full battalion 
of infantry — asleep. 
So close to the firing line ! Mystified, yet doubting, 
I creep round the trench towards the road. 
A pool of golden sunshine falls direct upon one of 
the sleeping figures which lies rather apart, the face up- 
turned, one arm extended — a typically Teuton face. The 
uniform is grey, the facings red, the belt and pouches 
black like the boots. The expression and attitude of the 
young man are peaceful and calm if a little unnatural. 
Not a quiver, not a sound. 
I glance at the other figures as I creep by. They, 
too, are very peaceful, very quiet, very happy. Nearly 
all are Englishmen and, looking at them, I realise that 
I am in the presence of a great fraternity of soldiers. 
Nothing shall disturb their rest again, neither shells nor 
bullets, nor the call of duty. 
In the sunny meadow beyond, a clergyman and two 
helpers have begun their work of burying the dead. 
15 
