FOR A POCKET-KNIFE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XVIII, 29 October 1898, Page 576

FOR A POCKET-KNIFE.

Great bravery is rarer on a retreat than on a charge for obvious reasons; the excitement and thrill of attack is then lacking, and the necessity of haste in order to get away is often real. This fact makes interesting an incident recently related by a French officer concerning a nameless soldier of the Army of the Rhine in the war of 1870. A battery of mitrailleuses, or machine guns, had made a stand against the advancing Germans near Metz. It was on the 16th of August, in the brave fight made by the division of General Picard. The fire of the enemy was terrible, and seemed to be sweeping away the whole French division. In the midst of the final firing of the French, prior to their inevitable retreat, one of the mitrailleuses ceased to work on account of the sticking of a shell in the barrel. A lieutenant looked about for something with which to remove the shell, and a soldier offered him his pocket-knife. The lieutenant had just removed the shell when the order came to fall back. In the confusion the officer dropped the soldier’s knife on the ground. When they had withdrawn a little distance, the soldier came up to the lieutenant and said, saluting respectfully.:— ‘Will you please let me have my knife?’ ‘But I’ve lost it, man. It’s back there somewhere on the ground.’ The soldier showed evident signs of grief. ‘Why, I’ll get you another to take its place in Metz,’ said the officer. ‘Oh, it isn’t the value of the knife, sir,’ said the soldier. ‘l’m just fond of it, that’s all. I brought it from home. Now, if you’ll let me, I’ll go back after it.’ ‘Go back after it in the face of this fire and the advance of the enemy?’ ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, if you care as much as that for a pocket-knife, it must be pretty dear to you. Go on!’

The soldier started back. Shot and shell were flying, the enemy were near, somewhere in the g-loom of the battlefield, and the man knew he might be overwhelmed. And all this for an old poeket-knife that he had carried since he was a boy, and which was associated with dear things and dear people at home. He reached the place and found the spot where the gun must have stood. He groped about; the balls whistled in his ears and shells burst. He heard the rattle of approaching artillery and the near blaring of bugles sounding orders. It was the enemy advancing. Nevertheless, he kept on rummaging about for the old knife. In a moment—joy!—he found it; it had been dropped while still open, and the blade glistened. He picked it up, and then he ran. He closed the knife as he ran, and thrust it into his pocket. He ran so fast that before long he overtook his retreating company. The lieutenant saw him come up, and looked inquiringly at him. ‘l’ve got it, lieutenant!’ he shouted, slapping his pocket. Then he winked at the officer. It was quite against the military regulations for a private soldier to wink at an officer, but under the circumstances the lieutenant did not mind.