WHEN I WAS WOUNDED.

Hokitika Guardian, 5 April 1918, Page 1

WHEN I WAS WOUNDED.

THE SPIRIT OP .THE FRONTS. (By Private Victor Grayson, Formerly Socialist M.P. for Colne Valley.

It is perhaps characteristic of this great war that almost every section of our fighting forces has at various times been given the special title of “ The Suicide Olnh." In numerous omnibuses, tubes, restaurants, and drawing-rooms at home, in sundry billets and bivouacs behind the line—and even in the trenches— I have heard the respective Jcl aims of the various sections fervently presented, and as fervently disputed. , It is not my present purpose to decide between Lewir.-gnnners, bombers, rifle-grenadiers, trench-mortarifes, the Field Artillery, the crews of our submarines or destroyers, the managers of our aeroplanes, or the genial occupants of our observation balloons, I merely desire to relate a short, and true incident of my Own e.vperien' , es before Passchendnele and to illustrate by the way the claims of certain artillery drivers to the much-disputed “ degree.”

After a 'terrible experience of crawling —wounded - out of the fighting line, I succeeded in reaching an advanced dressing station. This was an old Boche “ pill-box,” completely surrounded by wounded comrades awaiting'the services of tlie dresser. Unfortunately the'dresser bad been killed and his associate severely wounded, and our next hope was a dressing station three miles distant, beyond an ever-shelled waste of mud which varied in depth from one to five feet.

A stretcher-bearer whose mate had .been killed, offered to support me towards the road, and we were struggling through the quagmire when two artillery drivers, whose names I never inquired, qyertook ns. No pen can ever describe the heroism of these splendid fellows, who were already panting from the exertion of guiding their horses through the mud and the menace of bursting shells. They were covered from head to foot in clinging slime, but, perceiving my plight, they suggested a “ I’ide.” Though I bad never mounted a horse in my life I accepted that offer as a drowning man clutches at a straw. With inconceivable tenderness thej' lifted me on to the mercurial back of “ Maori,” a spirited lieast 'who quickly divined the ignorance and incompetence of his rider. He plunged, sank; leapt, and curvetted throughout the whole of that memorable journey, and when one driver was winded the other relieved him in leading the terrified hoi’se with its desperate harden. When we passed our own batteries “ Maori ” became a circus horse, and bis winded driver confessed : “ I’m almost as frightened as you are. ‘ Ufaori,’ so help me, I am ! ” We reached the dressing station, which was situated on a high bank some hundred yards from the road. Our drivers had still a mile to travel, but they insisted on taking me up the incline, lifting me to a seat, and fetching me coffee. The rules of the station provided that coffee was for the wonnded only, and I swallowed a lump us f. took the cup ftom the hands of the comrade who had brought me in. ... “Come on, ‘Maori,’!’’ he said, after wishing me luck, and started away. .1 tried to thank him. and the answer l received was :

“ Put that in your coffee, mate ; it’s all in the game ! ” : And I’ve wondered since at the difference between the spirit of that unknown friend of mine at the front and the attitude of some qqondam comrade of mine at home.