WHEN I WAS WOUNDED.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 12284, 5 April 1918, Page 8

WHEN I WAS WOUNDED.

The Spirit of the Fronts. (By Private Victor Grayson.) It. is perhaps characteristic of the great war that almost every section of our fighting forces has at various times been given the special'title of the‘‘Suicide Club,” writes Victor Grayson in the “ Daily Mail-” In numerous omnibuses. tubes, restaurants and drawingrooms at home, in sundry billets and bivouacs behind the line—and even in' the trenches—l have heard the respective claims of the various sections fervently presented, and as fervently disputed. It is not my present purpose to decide between Lewis gunners, bombers, rifle grenadiers, trench mortarites. 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 experiences before Passchendaele and to illustrate by the way the claims of certain artillery drivers to the much disputed “degree.” After a terrible experience of crawl-ing-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 the dresser. Unfortunately the dresser had been killed and bis associate severely wounded, and our next hopo was a dressing station three miles distant, beyond an evershelled 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, overtook us. No pen can ever describe the heroism of these splendid fellows, who were already panting from the exertion of guiding their horses tluough the mud and the menace of bursting shells. . Tll ey jrere covered from head to foot in clinging slime, but, perceiving ray plight, they suggested a " ride.” Though I had never mounted a horse m my life, I accepted that offer as a drowning man clutches at a straw. With inconceivable tenderness they lifted nie on to the mercurial back of Maori,” a spirited beast who quickly divined the ignorance and incompetence of his rider. He plunged, sank, leaped and curvetted throughout the whole of that memorable journey, and when one driver was winded the other relieved him in leading the terrified horse with its desperate burden. When we passed our own batteries “ Maori ” became a circus horse, and his winded driver confessed: “I’m almost as frightened as you are, ‘Maori,’ 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 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 wounded only, and ,T swallowed a lump as I took the cup from the ’hands of the comrade who bad brought me in- . . “Come on. ‘Maori!’” he said, after wishing me luck, and started away. T tried In thank him, and the answer I received was: “ Put that in yoiir 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 ntiilnde of some quondam comrades nf mine at home.